


The Art of the Compromise

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Surrender 'Verse [8]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: BDSM, Blood, Breathplay, Canon Era, Consent Issues, Discovery, Dry Fucking, Friendship, Happy Ending, Humiliation, Impact Play, Look it's complicated but I promise George and Martha know what they're about, M/M, Marking, Orgasm Delay, Pain Kink, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Rape Fantasy, Roleplayed Noncon, Romance, Rough Sex, Secret Relationship, Somnophilia, There is no infidelity in this fic, Yes Martha Washington is a character, everyone has a good time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 13:39:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17581922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Martha Washington and the Schuyler sisters come to Morristown, and Hamilton's devotion to his general holds fast.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's been months since I updated this 'verse (and almost a year before that), but please know I've been working my ass off on this monstrosity of a fic the entire time. I'll try to post regularly, along with the other series I'm continuing to write. No specific schedule, but the new chapters should go up steadily now that I've started posting.
> 
> Thank you _so much_ for all the patience and support while I wrestled with this fic. (Thanks especially to Aidennestorm who never let it drift too far out of mind.) I know a lot of you have been waiting ages and may have begun to despair of ever seeing Surrender 'Verse continue. But here we are, and I hope you enjoy the ride!

The need for distance—for caution—for _self-restraint_ proves an unpleasant challenge.

Somehow they've managed. Washington has not laid hands on his boy during daylight since his discomfiting conversation with the Marquis de Lafayette. He's kept Alexander in his private rooms, but outside their bed he does not touch. Not even a harmless hand on the shoulder, as he occasionally bestows on his other aides. He does not dare; it takes far too little for Alexander Hamilton to unravel his composure.

Even under cover of night, Washington has been more circumspect. Reluctant to indulge the more vicious of their mutual cravings, for fear of the proofs that will linger into the morning.

His boy is growing restless, though Hamilton has also been careful. Not to goad him too far. Not to corner him at inopportune moments. Not to demand things of his general that Washington is struggling to withhold. It is a maddening and unsatisfying dance. It is absolute hell, one more reason to wish for this war to end. Once they are victorious, Washington can go back to being a private citizen. He can manage his own affairs, and keep whatever company he likes—the advantage of money and station—and will no longer have to contend with a dozen wartime aides living practically in his uniform pocket.

In the meantime, he struggles to hold his ground, all too certain that this balance will not keep.

Martha travels to join him at Morristown. She makes the journey as the army settles into winter barracks, burrowing in against vicious weather and insufficient supplies. The deprivations of the season will not touch everyone equally, but Washington will do his best to see that _all_ of his men are taken care of. Martha Washington's presence in town will be primarily a symbolic gesture. She will not be staying in the general's headquarters, but rather in more comfortable accommodations up the road. But her presence will boost morale among the officers, as will the other society ladies in the town.

Washington is not quite quick enough in explaining the situation to his boy. Alexander is always the first in camp to take in any hint of news. It should not surprise Washington when he mounts the stairs like gallows, closes the door, and asks the question with a look of stormy resignation on his face.

"Where shall I sleep while your wife is in camp?"

Guilt twists in Washington's stomach as he realizes, in all the time he has been making intimate promises, he has never once explained _Martha_. There is a sliver of indignation peeking from beneath Hamilton's expression. A wordless curiosity: why did Washington not tell him Martha was coming?

"You will sleep in our bed, as always." Washington rises from his desk and crosses to the door. Turns the latch to be more certain of privacy, before returning his entire focus to where Alexander stands at the center of the room. "Assuming that is where you wish to remain."

Hamilton blinks at him, startled confusion flashing in his eyes before something more stubborn brightens there. "Perhaps you did not hear me. Your wife is coming to Morristown."

"Yes." Washington approaches slowly, not certain of his reception. He would perhaps feel more confident if he and Hamilton had not been circling each other so warily since their close brush with discovery. As it is he feels off-balance and less sure than ever of his boy's mind. "She will be staying with John and Gertrude Cochran. They can offer more luxury and privacy than these headquarters could ever hope to provide."

Again Hamilton blinks at him, but this time Washington allows no opportunity to speak.

"Alexander, please do not misunderstand me. I keep no secrets from Martha. Our marriage has never been a matter of romance."

In the span of a heartbeat Hamilton's posture eases, his expression caught between relief and horror. "She knows? About me?"

"No." Washington closes the last of the distance in quick strides, grasping his boy by the arms. Resisting the urge to drag him into a crushing embrace. "She knows about _me_. I would never put such details in a letter that might be intercepted. But she _will_ know about you, soon after she arrives."

"You would look her in the eye and tell her of our understanding?" Hamilton looks very much like he can't believe such idiocy.

"Yes. She will call me an old fool, but she will not breathe a word to anyone." He pauses, tugs his boy a little closer. "Martha is a dear friend. She can be trusted."

Hamilton's mouth presses into a thin line, distinctly unhappy.

Washington raises one hand to curl along Alexander's cheek, holding his gaze steadily. "Would you prefer I not say anything?"

"I don't know," Hamilton admits in a small voice. His fingers have twisted in the fabric of Washington's uniform, and he nuzzles at Washington's hand. Eyes falling shut for the barest moment.

"This is your secret too," Washington murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to Alexander's temple. It's a tender gesture—a softness he would not have dared offer when they first began their affair—but he knows now that for all the violence his boy craves, they both need this as well. "I won't say a thing if you'd rather—"

"But she's your _wife_ ," Hamilton interrupts Washington's reassurances. His eyes are wide and a little bit scared.

"Just because I _have not_ kept secrets from Martha doesn't mean I'm incapable of it." Washington does his best to speak the words lightly. The truth is, guarding this secret from Martha will be difficult. Almost impossible considering how well she knows him, how observant she is of her surroundings. But he will manage if it's what Alexander wants.

"And you would do that?" Dark eyes peer up into Washington's own with fierce intensity. "You would lie to her? For me?"

Washington bites his tongue to keep from answering, _I would do anything for you, Alexander_. Because that is not the point. Because he is quite frankly terrified at how little he would balk at, if Alexander Hamilton were the one asking. And because he does not trust his voice to remain steady if he speaks such a truth aloud.

Instead he says, "I would. Whatever you need of me. I give you my word."

He is not expecting his boy to surge up and forward, to kiss him with clumsy desperation. Washington breathes a startled sound against Alexander's mouth, but he doesn't withdraw. Stupid to allow this now, when headquarters is not empty, but in this moment he can't bear to push Alexander away.

Washington allows him control for a moment before taking charge of the kiss. Then he frames Hamilton's face with both hands and crushes him closer, deepens the kiss with a forceful thrust of his tongue past obedient lips.

When Hamilton subsides, Washington releases him, traces a thumb over the boy's kiss-slick lower lip.

"You can tell her," Hamilton blurts. "If you trust her, then so do I."

"Are you sure?" Washington presses. "I meant what I said: whatever you need me to do."

"Tell her," Hamilton repeats more firmly. "Even if you two aren't... She should still know. She's your wife."

"She is a _friend_ , Alexander." For all the external trappings of their life together, Martha has never been more to him than that. She has never _wanted_ to be more, and Washington never begrudged her the distance. He's entertained lovers enough elsewhere, men and women both. It doesn't trouble him that Martha refuses to share his bed; passion was never part of their understanding. "She is not entitled to my secrets."

"But you _want_ to tell her," Hamilton presses.

"Yes," Washington admits, letting a hint of smile twitch at one corner of his mouth. "I would very much like for her to know about you." He has wished so many times he could confide in her, but the risk of putting these feelings—these truths—to paper is too great. To tell her in person... It will be a powerful relief, no matter what her reaction. Exasperation is the most likely. Support is not out of the question.

Hamilton must intuit some portion of this, because after a moment he hesitantly returns the smile. "Okay."


	2. Chapter 2

The Schuyler sisters make a powerful impression when they arrive in Morristown. Young women, marriageable, wealthy, intelligent. How could they not create a stir among local society?

Washington pays them no mind, beyond absorbing the knowledge that Martha is impressed. She finds them kind and clever, seems especially to appreciate Angelica Schuyler's company. When the Cochrans host an elegant ball—far too extravagant considering the hardships of winter on the troops—Martha insists Washington attend, and that he invite his aides and other officers to join the festivities. Washington agrees. He works his men too hard; they deserve a night of revelry.

His one qualm lies in the fact that, having extended these invitations, he has no choice but to attend the gala himself. Even if he could avoid the shoddy appearance of the thing, Martha would never allow it. She knows him too well—knows how thoroughly he is capable of isolating himself—and she has always made it her business to force him to socialize. There's no point arguing with her now.

Which is how he finds himself mingling amid wealthy relations of rich rebel families. Martha remains on his arm, helping him look respectable, occasionally reminding him to be diplomatic. There are people at this party with close relations among the Continental Congress; Washington could find advantages and allies here, if he is careful.

He does his best. Conversing with strangers has never been a particular skill, nor does he enjoy shaking hands.

What focus he’s managed to conjure vanishes like a wisp of smoke when he spots his boy on the arm of Elizabeth Schuyler.

"Relax, George." Martha eases up onto her toes to murmur the words near his ear. "It's a party. He's just being polite. Stop staring."

Washington shakes himself and forces his gaze elsewhere. He manages a stiff smile for the next richly-appointed couple Martha introduces him to. Keeps his head in the game through half a dozen more introductions before his attention strays to Alexander once more. Dancing now. Still with Elizabeth Schuyler. He smiles brightly at whatever she is saying, and the expression is warm on his young and handsome face.

" _George_." Martha pinches him hard in the side.

Once more he drags his gaze away for a time.

The party grows livelier around him. Washington keeps a discreet eye on his boy—subtle enough that eventually Martha leaves him in favor of other private conversations—her eyes flashing with an admonishment to behave, but otherwise no hint of disapproval. And with every glance he finds Alexander keeping the same company.

He should not begrudge the grin on Alexander's face, but he can't help it when the Schuyler girl's answering smile is so bright and warm and fond.

There is no particular moment that shatters his better judgment. No hint of impropriety, nothing that could pass for provocation. There is only the dwindling reserve of his own willpower, fading ever faster as Hamilton continues to favor one partner for dance after dance after dance.

Washington manages to restrain himself until the two relocate to the very edge of the room, but he moves quickly now that the eyes of the crowd are elsewhere. He approaches Hamilton from behind—sets a possessive hand over the boy's narrow shoulder and lets the weight of it bear pointedly down.

"Colonel, may I speak to you in private?" His voice sounds almost entirely normal, but he feels Hamilton shiver beneath the heavy touch. Elizabeth Schuyler's eyes dart down to Washington’s grip, something quick and sharp in her face that lingers even after he drops the hand away.

"Of course, Your Excellency." Hamilton turns immediately toward him. He _must_ recognize something askew in Washington's mood, but there is no visible sign in the boy's easy expression. He only pauses, turns his head to address his companion, and says, "Eliza, you'll forgive me I hope."

He offers no introduction, and Washington does not request one. He has met the three Schuyler girls in passing. Even if he hadn't, he is in no wise prepared to make nice in this moment.

With a powerful exercise of self-restraint, he manages _not_ to drag Hamilton bodily from the main hall. There are fewer people scattered in the other ground floor rooms, but they are still potential witnesses. Washington continues all the way to the front hall, up the narrow steps leading to the second floor. He does not stop until he is standing in a windowless library he has never before set foot in.

Washington stands perfectly still, just inside the door, until Hamilton is across the threshold. Once they're both inside, he closes the door—quietly but firmly—and sets the latch. Another instant and he has his boy pinned against a sturdy bookcase. His blood heats at the wide flash of Hamilton’s eyes.

Both of Hamilton's hands have twisted in the fabric of Washington's coat, but he lets go quickly, framing Washington's face between his palms.

"Sir, what's wrong?"

Washington glares. His Alexander is far too smart for his own good; there is no way he doesn't already know the answer to his question. It's disingenuous to ask it anyway. To make Washington say the words when it is Alexander who has been tormenting him all night.

"Elizabeth Schuyler," Washington hisses. His own hands grip Hamilton by the hips, and he tightens his hold. A small but potent demonstration of strength, bestowing bruises that will ache when he bends his boy over his desk tomorrow.

"What about her?" There is the faintest knowing spark beneath the words. A glimmer just shy of teasing. 

That spark ignites fresh anger behind Washington's ribs. Jealousy does not become him. Yet here he is, helpless against it, as always. Selfish for reassurance that Alexander is truly his.

He draws a steadying breath. "You have neither spoken nor danced with anyone else this entire night."

"That's not completely true. I flirted with her sister for about three minutes." Hamilton speaks the observation lightly, and now he is unmistakably teasing. Washington growls and shoves Hamilton harder against the bookcase, not caring that it wobbles a little from the force, not caring about _anything_ beyond the need to assert what little control he can.

In a distant, rational corner of his mind he recognizes that Hamilton is winding him up deliberately. Perhaps spur of the moment, or perhaps because he has been itching for this. Desperate for the more violent claim Washington has been so carefully avoiding. Angering him on purpose, and using Elizabeth Schuyler to do it.

Foolish. _Dangerous_ , even, under the circumstances. The threat of discovery is still far too real. They cannot afford to be careless.

But Washington can’t take his hands off Alexander. The surge of territorial rage in his chest overpowers him. He can't let go when there is such a greedy maelstrom inside him. Building like a storm front and ready to burst.

At least Alexander possesses wisdom enough to look uncertain now. Wide eyes accompany a more soothing tone, a voice thick with unmasked affection when Hamilton vows, "Your Excellency, I have no romantic intentions toward _any_ of the Schuyler women. Not even Eliza."

"Then why do you linger at her side like a smitten lover?"

There is a flash of guilt behind dark eyes—the closest Hamilton will come to acknowledging that he’s been _trying_ to work his way beneath Washington's skin—but it fades quickly. Replaced by something equally candid and honest.

"Because," Hamilton says at last, "Eliza is kind, and sincere, and she made it clear within moments that she has no interest in being pursued by potential husbands."

"She could be lying," Washington protests.

"Yes." Hamilton’s palms slip from Washington's face to his chest. "But I don't think she is."

"How can you be so confident?" Washington is pleading now—no thought for his dignity—desperate to be convinced.

Alexander’s smile is a sharp flash of teeth. "Because I am _very good_ at knowing when somebody wants me. And whatever else her intentions might be, Eliza does not want me. I could not have _invented_ a more perfect companion for the night. No other huntress will come for me if I'm on the arm of a Schuyler."

It’s a reasonable strategy. There's genuine wisdom in it, especially if Alexander is right about the girl's intentions.

Washington will consider all these things later; at the moment he does not care.

Less rational instincts are guiding him now. His soul burns with the need to prove Alexander is his to touch, his to claim. He should not do so here; it's an unconscionable risk. But he kisses Alexander anyway, and he can’t regret it when he’s met with immediate melting submission.

Another moment and he drags Hamilton roughly away from the bookcase. There is a massive circular table at the center of the room, and Washington bends Hamilton forward, forcing him down atop the sturdy woodgrain. Hamilton resists him, putting up a familiar fight, but as always he is no match for Washington. It is the easiest possible thing to capture both wrists and pin them.

Washington leans forward himself once he holds the boy immobilized. Presses his weight along Alexander's trembling spine, grinds his cock against his ass and wishes there were fewer layers of clothing separating them. These damn uniforms. They are too much in moments like this.

"Sir." Hamilton sounds breathless beneath him, and Washington kisses his jaw, catches his earlobe in a warning bite. " _Sir_ , I thought we weren't doing this. That we were being more careful."

"Do you want me to stop?" Washington thrusts harder, jostling his boy atop the table.

It doesn't matter how his boy answers—not unless he uses one of their secret codes to truly call a ceasefire—Washington is going to fuck him. Damn the party downstairs, damn the consequences, damn the Schuylers. Perhaps Hamilton will put up a fight, or perhaps he will spread his legs and behave, but either way there is only one possible outcome.

Washington’s heart nearly stops at the sound of the library door swinging open. _Impossible_ ; he knows he set the latch securely. He lets go immediately, backing away, moving to put himself between Alexander and the intrusion. Whoever has opened the door saw them—Washington has no delusions about that—but the instinct to protect surges in his chest.

Elizabeth Schuyler stands in the open doorway. There is a key in her hand and a look of furious horror on her face.

" _Fuck_ ," Hamilton hisses quietly behind him, a shuffle of fabric as he slides off the table and rights himself. "I thought you locked the door." The words are too low to carry across the room, but Washington's posture straightens and his hands clench at his sides.

"I _did_." He wills his boy to stay put. To stay _back_ and allow Washington to shield him from whatever is coming. He does not take his eyes off the door. He doubts he could break from Eliza's wide-eyed glare if he wanted to.

She tucks the key into a pocket beneath her skirts and steps across the threshold. Determination glints in every movement as she closes the door and strides farther into the room. Confrontation sets her jaw, stiffens her shoulders, makes her look formidable despite the softness of her dress. Washington is not so foolish as to underestimate a woman under any circumstances, but something tells him it would be especially stupid to doubt the tools and stubbornness at _this_ woman's disposal.

"General Washington," she says in an unyielding voice, "you will release Colonel Hamilton and remove yourself from the grounds at once."

Washington swallows and shakes his head. "Miss Schuyler—"

"No." She glares harder, takes a step closer. "Whatever your excuses, I don't want them. I _will not_ permit you to commit such an assault unpunished. My father will hear of this."

Washington doesn't doubt her sincerity. He is certain that by the end of the night she will have drafted a letter and paid someone to carry it to Philip Schuyler's encampment. Something tells him she will write to the Continental Congress just as surely. And though a woman has no official voice in military matters, he does not doubt the word of a Schuyler would see him ruined.

But perhaps, if he manages this conversation exactly right, the result will be his ruin alone and Alexander will walk away unscathed.

Before Washington can acknowledge the accusations lingering in the air, Hamilton darts forward and puts himself between Eliza and his general.

"It's not what you think," Hamilton blurts.

Washington's eyes widen, and his voice is more thunderous than necessary when he says, "Alexander, _be quiet_."

"I don't care what it is." Eliza's wrathful expression softens when she shifts her attention to Alexander. She takes another step forward, closing the distance by degrees. Her tone is cautious, a gentle contrast to her previous sternness. "I won't ask how long this has been going on, but I won't let him continue to hurt you."

"He isn't hurting me. The general would _never_ hurt me."

Eliza's gaze cuts behind them, down to the table where Washington held Hamilton pinned only moments ago. He knows what she is thinking, and he can't blame her for it. Not after the glimpse she must have caught before they scrambled apart; not after the jealous display he put on in the ballroom below. He knows very well what this looks like—what it looked like even before she obtained a key and followed them upstairs—and there is no undoing the damage now.

"Alexander," he says softly, laying a gentler hand on his boy's shoulder. "Enough. There is no point trying to protect me." They can't explain their affair to her; even if they could, doing so would only endanger his boy alongside him. There are far too few ways Washington can protect Alexander; he will not balk at allowing Eliza's misperceptions to stand. At least as she looks at them now she is laying all responsibility where it rightly belongs, on Washington's shoulders.

He honestly expects his boy to yield. If not to the low command in his voice, at least to necessary pragmatism.

But instead Hamilton turns to glower at him, rebellious and furious. " _No point_? Sir, if she tells her father about this, you are _ruined_." He hisses his protest quietly, but Eliza is closer now; she can almost certainly hear every word. "I won't let a careless misunderstanding take you from me!"

Over Hamilton's head, Washington risks a glance at Eliza. He finds a more perplexed expression furrowing her brow, confusion tingeing her existing anger. Her mouth turns sharply down at one corner. This exchange is obviously not easing her concerns.

Hamilton twists to look over his shoulder at Eliza, then turns to Washington once more. "Let me talk to her. Alone."

"I do not think—"

"Sir, please." Desperation clouds Hamilton's expression and he steps directly into Washington's space. Pitches his voice so quiet it will not reach Eliza’s ears. "I can explain all this better than you. I can help her understand."

Washington ignores the weight of Eliza's stare. "Even if you succeed, you will only share my ruin."

"Maybe. Or maybe I can convince her to let this go. I can be very persuasive."

It isn't idle boasting. Washington knows just how convincing his boy can be. There is a reason he employs Hamilton to draft the most urgent letters to Congress. There is a reason he sends his chief of staff in his stead when there are recalcitrant generals and Washington cannot spare the time to bring them to heel himself. If anyone can achieve _this_ impossible task, it is Alexander Hamilton.

But the consequences of failure are too high for Washington to countenance the risk. "It will not work."

Hamilton frowns. "I won't see everything you've worked for destroyed over a wrong you haven't committed. _Let me talk to her_."

Perhaps the outcome of this conversation has been inevitable since the moment Eliza walked in the door. Looking into Alexander's face, Washington abruptly understands he will not win this fight. His boy is too stubborn, and too clever, and will never back down.

Washington’s rigid posture deflates, and he closes his eyes. Just for a moment. Opens them again and gives a tight, unhappy nod. Hamilton nods in answer, and together they face Elizabeth Schuyler.

She stands taller and juts her chin with unyielding defiance. "I'm not leaving this room."

"No." Washington does not entirely succeed at masking the displeasure in his voice. " _I_ am leaving. Good evening, Miss Schuyler. Colonel Hamilton."

Every step is torment, but he forces himself to leave the room calmly, and shuts the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

Hamilton stares for a long time at the closed library door, distracted even after his general is gone. Every instinct says to follow, to chase Washington down and dispel the wounded tension in those powerful shoulders.

But he can't follow Washington right now. He has a more urgent audience. 

After a moment, Hamilton turns his head and finds Elizabeth Schuyler watching him. Bald confusion flashes in kind eyes, and she holds herself at a careful distance. Gauging and uncertain. Peering at him with a worried sort of skepticism that will be difficult to coax down.

He isn't angry at her for interrupting.

Chagrined, yes. And perhaps angry with the universe at large. But he can't fault Eliza for following after Washington dragged him from the party. He can't blame her for intervening when she came upon what must have looked like a violent and ugly display. Hell, it speaks to her character that she came to his defense. The Schuyler name has power and prestige, yes, but Washington is even more a force to be reckoned with. 

Eliza didn't hesitate. And she won't shrink from using every resource at her disposal if Hamilton can't explain to her satisfaction.

She is still watching him. Quiet. Curious. Concerned. He can see questions glinting in her face, but his insistence on talking to her alone—perhaps the relative ease with which he convinced Washington to retreat—has her holding her tongue for the time being.

Hamilton glances around the room and spots a wide settee between bookcases. He gestures toward it, and sits beside Eliza on soft maroon cushions.

He's had several silent, awkward minutes to gather his thoughts, and still he does not know where to begin. Only the truth will suffice. But there is so very _much_ truth, and surely he doesn't need to impart all of it. Some things are too personal. Some things belong to him and his general, and not even Elizabeth Schuyler's best intentions will make Hamilton divulge them.

"What you saw," he starts at last, careful to sound confident despite the long delay, "I know it looked bad—"

"He was attacking you!" Eliza blurts, then clamps her mouth shut, staring at him with wide eyes.

"He wasn't attacking me." Hamilton counters the accusation calmly, grateful that at least she entered the library when she did. Yes, she witnessed a moment too eloquent to write off entirely, but she didn't see Washington manhandling him in the seconds before. She did not witness the strength with which Washington forced him down over the table. "The general and I share an intimate understanding. He wasn't hurting me. He would never hurt me."

An oversimplification, skirting near the very edges of the truth, but still honest. The pain Washington inflicts is only ever welcome—he would not hurt Hamilton beyond their mutual desires. This belongs to them and Eliza does not need to know. The simpler version of the truth will have to be enough.

Eliza's eyes—already huge—widen even further as she takes his meaning. Her face reddens with heat and her mouth forms a soft, soundless, _oh_.

"I know it's a lot to ask," Hamilton says, "But you must keep this secret. The general's reputation depends on it. _Our cause_ depends on it." Hamilton's own reputation depends just as surely, but he will not beg for his own sake.

"The general's reputation." Eliza's expression clouds. "Why should I care for the reputation of a man who would coerce a subordinate into his bed?"

Hamilton's brow furrows. "He isn't coercing me. He's my—" He falters, for once incapable of finding the word he needs. How to describe Washington? His lover? His partner? Washington is _everything_ , and there is no word in any language sufficient to contain their connection.

Eliza's hand covers his, and Hamilton startles as she says mores cautiously, "He's your commanding officer."

"Believe me, I am _well aware_." He allows her hand to remain atop his own and meets her worried stare. "You think he's taking advantage of me. He's not. His authority has nothing to do with this."

"He's your _commanding officer_ ," Eliza repeats.

" _Yes_." Exasperation flares beneath the calm Hamilton is trying to maintain. "He's my superior, and I seduced him. Brazenly. It wasn't easy, either. His Excellency can be remarkably stubborn."

Eliza blinks at him as though struggling to believe his words. "Then… you aren't being misused?"

"Fuck no." Hamilton offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile. He does not say the first response that flies into his head: that he is being used _exactly_ as he wishes. Safer to admit more moderately, "He is inexpressibly good to me."

"And he takes no liberties? No license that isn't freely offered?"

Another complicated question. Hamilton offers another simplified truth. "Never. I am entirely and willingly his." The words come out far more somber than he intends. Weighty, more than he should be admitting. Eliza's eyes narrow, reading him far too well considering how briefly they've been acquainted. 

"Are you in love with him?"

Hamilton inhales hard at the question and nearly chokes. Too much truth. He didn't mean to confess _this_. There was no way to credibly deny their physical relationship—not after what Eliza saw—but the rest… Even Lafayette, who knows more than most, does not know how Hamilton feels for his general.

It seems improbable, but when he looks into Eliza's face he finds no hint of censure.

"You're not disgusted at the idea?" The question—more like a plea—is out before Hamilton consciously decides to ask it. He doesn't know why he is so desperate to be reassured. To know Eliza doesn't condemn his feelings. Perhaps the secret has weighed heavier on his shoulders than he realized.

She gives him a sad smile. "Of course I'm not disgusted. Worried, yes. He's still your general. But we can't tell our hearts where to love." There's something raw in the gentle words. An earnestness that makes Hamilton realize she is not speaking in the abstract, but with real feeling. Curiosity gnaws at him, and he wonders if there is someone _she_ can't have. If her own inclinations run contrary to the expectations of society and family; it would go a long way toward explaining the fervency of her insistence she does not intend to find a husband among the officers.

Hamilton bites his tongue and asks none of the questions suddenly vying for space in his brain. Perhaps she will tell him one day, but it's not his place to demand details.

Eliza's expression sobers. "Isn't it sad, though? To love someone and know you must always hide it from the world?"

A tangle of difficult emotion twists in Hamilton's stomach, but he shrugs and forces false levity into his voice. "The general is mine. I'll hide whatever feelings I must if it's the only way to keep him."

"He's a married man," Eliza points out, not unkindly.

Thoughts of Martha still prick unpleasantly beneath Hamilton's skin, despite his new understanding of how things truly stand between the Washingtons. But he doesn't falter. He will not doubt his general, and he meets Eliza's eyes without flinching.

Conviction shines through Hamilton's answer. "He is mine just the same."


	4. Chapter 4

It is remarkably easy to grow fond of Elizabeth Schuyler. Winter in Morristown will be a long and arduous ordeal—no less devastating to their forces than the winters that have come before—but between his place in Washington's bed and his new friendship with not just Eliza but the rest of the Schuyler women, Hamilton thinks perhaps it will pass more quickly.

He and Eliza become close, and it's not long before the town’s nosy society folk begin to take notice. An irritating but unavoidable fact. The community is small, insular, and new gossip is a precious commodity. Even among the officers and aides de camp, the desire for distraction is potent. Work remains to be done, but so much is at a standstill. There is little they can do to prepare for the spring campaign. They can only wait, focus on immediate supply needs and survival as winter settles in more heavily around them.

"What are you waiting for, Alexander?" John Laurens asks once when they are alone. "Her affection for you is unmistakable. If you don't propose, someone else might."

Hamilton shakes his head. He doesn't try to argue that Eliza is not interested in him, or in any other husband for that matter. Laurens is not entitled to such information, and Hamilton certainly will not be the one to break a confidence.

Instead he simply answers, "What can I offer a woman of standing? I have no connections, no money, and at this rate I will finish the war a lieutenant colonel with no battlefield glory to my name."

"Eliza doesn't need those things," Laurens retorts with complete confidence.

In a way he is right. Eliza _doesn't_ need those things. She would certainly not demand them from a potential husband, if there were someone capable of securing her interest.

"Maybe not." Hamilton shrugs. There's no point arguing against an obvious truth, however faulty his friend's reasoning otherwise. "But she still does not want _me_. And I'm in no position to support a wife. It's distinctly possible none of us will survive this winter, let alone the war."

They argue for a long time, later into the night than Hamilton intends.

"You're an idiot to let her slip away," Laurens points out when at last they part.

Hamilton laughs, and the sound is only a little bit strained. " _Good night_ , Laurens." There is finality in the words, and he hopes his friend will let the matter drop.

Under different circumstances there would be sense in John's advice. Elizabeth Schuyler is a kind woman with a powerful family, not to mention rich beyond Hamilton's wildest hopes. If he were interested in wedding _any_ woman, she would present the perfect opportunity. If Laurens presses the issue, it will be difficult to guard the secrets behind Hamilton's unyielding refusal.

He slips into headquarters with a guilty twinge at the late hour. He didn't tell Washington he intended to visit the nearby tavern with Laurens. While he doesn't owe anyone—even his beloved general—an account of every moment of his life, it's not as though Washington can ask after him without causing suspicion. If he worried at Hamilton’s absence tonight, he has had to do so in silence.

Headquarters is empty, all work set aside hours ago and the workroom dark as Hamilton passes by. Upstairs the only light comes from the crack beneath Washington's door—the office across the hall is dark too—and Hamilton steps into the relative warmth of their bedroom. A stove burns in the corner and two candles cast light over sparse furniture.

Washington sits upright in bed, poring over a large stack of documents. A quill and ink bottle sit at the ready on the crate that passes for a nightstand. The general is dressed down for sleep, and Hamilton suspects he tried to turn in, only to re-light the candles in his restlessness when Hamilton didn't return.

Keen eyes turn immediately to find him, but there is no hint of censure in them. A sheepish edge, maybe. And the usual familiar, possessive heat.

"You didn't have to wait up for me." Hamilton latches the door so they can't be disturbed, and shrugs out of his heavy coat. Washington's gaze tracks his movements as he undresses, efficiently and without guile.

"I couldn't sleep," Washington admits, and there, the hint of sheepishness. The man obviously feels silly for worrying. After all, what trouble could Hamilton possibly have found in so short a time, here in the confines of their winter camp? Even with Morristown and the strange corners of society surrounding them, it would be a challenge indeed.

Hamilton is naked now—has shed even his shirt—left all his clothing folded neatly over the chair. He pauses on his way across the room, just long enough to unroll and muss his own bedroll along the wall, leaving it at the ready in case Washington receives a visit during the night.

He reaches the bed and tugs the stack of foolscap from Washington's hands, setting the work aside and blowing out the candles on the crate. Capping the ink. Ending the general's busywork. The room is still lit brightly enough by icy moonlight through three high windows. Hamilton is already cold—even with the stove burning, the drafty old house is chilly—and his skin breaks out in gooseflesh.

Before he can crawl into bed, Washington grabs him and drags him roughly down—shoves him onto his back with an ease that leaves Hamilton breathless.

He offers token resistance—he will never tire of being able to _fight_ without fear of successful escape—but he's too tired to struggle in earnest. Too giddy at the bruising strength of Washington's hands wrenching his legs apart, at Washington's hot bulk slipping gracefully into the space between.

There's no oil to ease the way as Washington's cock fucks inside him, and Hamilton buries an ecstatic cry of pain against his general's throat. His absence _did_ rile the man badly; Washington hasn't taken him dry since Lafayette's discovery. And desperately as Hamilton has wanted it, he hasn't dared ask.

Now he is _delighted_ , spreading his legs wider to welcome the gradual agony of Washington's thick cock forcing its way deeper. Relaxing his body gives some leeway, but not enough. Fuck, it hurts—it's _glorious_ —and Hamilton's eyes sting with tears as Washington's powerful weight crushes him to the mattress. He is inescapably trapped, pinned in place, impaled on the hot hard length determined to split him open. He is exactly where he belongs, and Hamilton breathes a muffled sob as he wraps his arms around Washington's broad shoulders.

Washington does not stop until he bottoms out, filling Hamilton's body completely. When he goes still, even this is a perfect sort of torture.

The length seated inside him is an enormous presence, impossible to ignore. An intimate hurt, utterly overwhelming.

The kiss comes suddenly, taking his mouth with brutal command. Washington’s tongue thrusts past startled lips, a plundering assault that ends all too quickly and leaves Hamilton panting.

"Am I hurting you, Alexander?" Washington's hips shift between his thighs, jostling the deeply buried line of his cock.

" _Yes_ ," Hamilton gasps, clinging harder to Washington's shoulders. "Fuck, you're tearing me apart." He will be aching all through tomorrow. Longer. Blushing every time his general looks at him. Shifting uncomfortably on his hard wooden chair in the workroom.

Another jostle of the cock inside him, and Hamilton whimpers aloud.

"Say it, my boy. I want to hear you say the words."

Hamilton pitches his voice low and helpless and shaky. "You're hurting me."

" _Good_ ," Washington snarls, and proceeds to fuck him in earnest.


	5. Chapter 5

He spends more time in Eliza's company as the winter extends. Not just at the large gatherings designed to boost officer morale, but in smaller circles. There are days it's just him and the Schuyler women, all three charming company. Fewer days when he and Eliza can be alone and converse with true candor.

He never realized what it would mean, having a confidante. Someone who knows the truth and doesn't shy from him. John Laurens is his best friend, but Hamilton doesn't dare confess his connection to the general—he knows his friend's temper—knows that whatever John's stance on sodomy, he is certain to call Washington out. An affair of honor. He will consider it his duty, no matter how Hamilton might try to talk him down.

And then there is Lafayette. Who knows the truth—who _is_ a friend—but who staunchly does not accept the way things stand. Hamilton can see the worry in Lafayette's eyes, the disapproval he levels not at Alexander but at Washington. Misplaced protectiveness that would be all the worse if he knew the true contours of their arrangement.

Eliza is different. She would certainly worry if she knew of the rough handling, the welcome pain—there is a reason Hamilton avoids interacting with her face-to-face after Washington uses him hard—but as to their affair? She gives no hint of judgment. Nothing in her eyes suggests a desire to interfere now that she knows Hamilton is where he wants to be.

She confides in him, too. Quiet honesty as she confesses she sees no appeal in men. That her own interests lie in other, equally impossible directions.

"Not impossible," Hamilton argues more than once, and the blush that breaks across her face every time is charming. He means it, though. He refuses to accept a world where someone as kind and good as Elizabeth Schuyler cannot find her match.

They begin to exchange correspondence. Nothing indiscreet—neither of them is foolish enough to put their shared secrets to a page that might be intercepted—but subtler things. Superficial conversations that boost both of their spirits through a worsening winter.

It's no wonder the town begins to think they're courting. The appearance of the thing galls him, but short of truncating their acquaintance there's nothing he can do to quell the rumors.

Laurens continues to pester him. Hamilton can't even blame his friend for misunderstanding; there is so much he keeps from John deliberately. With every letter that arrives at the workroom, every soiree Hamilton attends, every visit and gala and greeting, John becomes more certain that Hamilton is destined to win Eliza's heart. Hamilton reassures him at every turn that he is _wrong_ , but the admonition has little effect.

And of course there is his general. Washington pretends to be confident in their understanding, but Alexander knows the man too well not to see the lingering shadow of doubt in protective eyes. No matter how fierce Hamilton's promises, there must be a part of Washington waiting for him to choose differently. Someone more appropriate, perhaps. As though 'appropriate' has ever been a word to guide Hamilton's heart.

As though he could ever want _anyone_ the way he craves and adores his general.

Washington of all people should know Hamilton is uninterested in courting Elizabeth Schuyler. Hamilton has no intimate interest in women, and even if he did, it would not be enough to distract him from where his entire heart belongs. But Washington has proven time and again that he takes nothing for granted—that he cannot help doubting his place at Hamilton's side. 

And much as each violent flare of possessiveness and jealousy is enjoyable in the moment, the last thing Hamilton wants is to wound the man he loves.

No matter how often—or how enthusiastically—Alexander makes his feelings clear, Washington's watchful caution remains. It used to sting, the fact that Washington doubts himself too much to believe Hamilton will stay. As though Washington thinks him inconstant; as though his general mistrusts _him_. But Hamilton has since figured out that the lingering doubt isn't about him at all. There's still a dull throb of hurt at knowing he is helpless to dispel his general's unease, but he sets it aside and goes to greater lengths, offering every reassurance he can.

Often this means leaving his letters to Eliza—along with her answering missives—out in the open for Washington to see.

His general would never demand access to his private correspondence, but Hamilton knows the letters have been read. He leaves them in their private quarters where no one else ventures except to seek the general himself, and returns to find them moved, rifled, folded in different ways than he left them. His wordless invitation accepted every time, though he and Washington don't discuss the fact out loud. Washington must recognize what Hamilton is doing, and there is perhaps even a glint of gratitude in solemn eyes whenever the other aides tease him about his lady friend.

The glimpse into his private affairs is a small price to pay. Hamilton possesses few secrets from Washington, and none he would truly insist on guarding.

As winter grows colder, Hamilton stops untucking his own sleeping pallet before crawling into the bed he shares with his general. The other officers have begun grumbling about how the biting cold has forced them to bed down together and share body heat. No one could fault general and chief of staff for doing the same, despite the stove burning near constantly in Washington's quarters. Even with a fire close by, wind whistles through drafty walls, turning every room of headquarters painfully cold.

Hamilton wakes one morning warmer than usual, groggy in the pre-dawn gloom. He stayed up working even later than usual last night, shivering near the hearth in the workroom as he drafted a vicious letter to Congress. The army's supplies are dwindling and the enlisted men are beginning to break ranks. If something isn't done, they will have mass desertion on their hands.

In this moment he is warm, and safe, and his senses are slow to surface from the clinging fog of sleep. There are the vestiges of some dream, a faint rocking motion, regular and rhythmic. The pillow beneath his cheek is worn soft, the blankets heavy across his back and shoulders, the bedsheets scratchy beneath his naked belly.

His _naked belly_.

His shirt has been rucked up along his body, and Hamilton realizes the rhythmic rocking is no illusion. The warmth across his back and shoulders is not the blankets but his general's hot weight crushing him into the mattress.

His legs are spread wide, Washington positioned between them as the man's hard cock ruts into him, a steady rhythm filling him as Washington's hot breath tickles the side of his throat. Every movement is smooth and slick—Hamilton can feel the slide of oil between his thighs—and seems calculated as though his general is trying not to wake him. As though he wants to see just how long he can claim Alexander without rousing him.

Washington has fucked him awake before, but those times were different. Rough. The raw strength of a merciless cock ramming deep and hard. Hurting him. Forcing him to consciousness with brutal suddenness.

This wakeup is deceptively gentle by contrast. Unrelenting and forceful, but also measured. All that power so carefully controlled, pinning him down without jostling him, mounting him so smoothly Hamilton honestly can't tell how long his general has been fucking him. His ass aches, deep and intimate, so it's probably been going on a long while. The thought makes his face heat and his heart beat faster—the idea of Washington taking his pleasure this way— _using him_ without even bothering to wake him first.

Hamilton makes no move to show that he's conscious. He continues to lie still, keep his breathing steady despite the way his blood is warming. His cock is already hard, trapped between his stomach and the bed, and it takes nearly inhuman willpower not to grind forward in search of friction. It takes even more fortitude not to fuck himself back on Washington's cock. Somehow he manages to keep still. Thrilling at the weight of Washington's chest along his spine, the inadvertent brush of lips beneath his jaw, the hitch of hips riding down against him. The cock impaling him with less caution every moment as Washington gradually nears the precipice.

God, how carefully must Washington have moved to reach this point without alerting him? To maneuver Hamilton onto his stomach and position himself between spread legs? To cover Hamilton with his weight without startling him to consciousness? To force that hard length inside Alexander's unprepared ass without the discomfort interrupting formless dreams?

An impressive feat. And one to be rewarded. Without opening his eyes or making any physical movement to give himself away, Hamilton breathes a sleepy, exaggerated whimper of pain.

Washington's chest hitches at the sound, and a low growl escapes his throat. He doesn't say anything—must believe the illusion that Hamilton is still unconscious—but his thrusts grow less measured. The ramming of the cock into Hamilton's aching ass takes on new ferocity, no longer cautious. No longer calculated to fly beneath his notice.

Hamilton continues to lie limp anyway. Washington knows how exhausted he was last night, how far he pushed himself. He might well believe Hamilton is too tired to register even the increasingly brutal rhythm jostling the bed.

The illusion shatters in a deliberate instant, as Washington—without slowing his harsh pace—slips a hand between the mattress and Hamilton's chest, and captures a nipple between thumb and forefinger. A vicious _twist_ makes Hamilton cry out, incapable of maintaining his silence before such sharp and sudden pain. He muffles his shout in the pillow and clenches his hands into helpless fists. The torturing grip does not ease. If anything it twists tighter, and tears prick at the corners of Hamilton's closed eyes.

"I know you're awake," Washington rasps in a rough, breathless voice. He snaps his hips forward almost frantically now. A couple more fast thrusts and he twists his free hand in Hamilton's hair, yanking his head back from the pillow and snarling, "Open your fucking eyes and _look_ at me."

Hamilton obeys, blinking hard and peering back over his shoulder. His lower lip is trembling and he is already crying in earnest. Overwhelmed. Absolutely glowing with pleasure and satisfaction and merciless pain. His scalp stings when Washington's fingers twist tighter in the tangle of his hair, and he closes his eyes and whimpers.

"I said _look at me_ ," Washington snaps, a delicious mingling of possessiveness and fury.

Hamilton opens his eyes once more. He's hyperventilating now. Breathing in time with the ever-speeding rhythm of Washington's cock splitting him apart. He is desperate to come, desperate to be touched. His nipple _burns_ where Washington has not let go, and his body is bent at an uncomfortable angle thanks to the hand yanking at his hair.

At last Washington releases his nipple and reaches lower, seeking Hamilton's cock. Hamilton tries to raise his hips to help, but he can't. Washington's weight is too sturdy, holds him pinned too securely. But that doesn't stop Washington's hand from squirming beneath Hamilton's stomach and finding its prize. It's a relief short-lived because instead of encouraging him toward orgasm, Washington's hand curls completely around him—cock and stones both—and squeezes them in a crushing grip. 

Hamilton yelps in startled agony.

"Be still, Alexander," Washington growls coldly. "I'm not finished with you yet."

The hand gripping him offers no respite at all as the pounding in his ass continues endlessly.

Washington holds on with vicious carelessness, as though this is just a better point of leverage as he rides nearer and nearer his own approaching orgasm. It hurts, Washington tightening his hold with nearly every thrust, crushing strength demonstrated like it is the easiest thing in the world.

Hamilton gasps at the worst of it, cries aloud at a cruel twist of Washington's hand. His cry must be _too_ loud, because the hand in his hair abruptly lets go and the broad palm covers his mouth instead. Silencing him. Jerking him back against Washington's chest.

The full weight of Washington's body presses forward, pinning him hard as Washington's movements grow uneven. Rougher. Closer than ever to the precipice.

_Please_ , Hamilton wants to beg, but has to settle for breathing a muffled sob against Washington's wide palm. It's too much. The pain, the bulk trapping him on the bed, the pleasure of being so selfishly claimed. Perfect elements whirl along his senses and leaving him frantic.

At last—god _finally_ —Washington goes still, wedging his cock deep and spending with a groan of ecstasy. His hand around Hamilton's cock eases back, not even a deliberate stroke, but it's all Hamilton needs. He spills across his general's fingers, slicking his stomach and the bedding beneath him. Shouting a shattered, muffled sound.

Washington's teeth sink hard into his shoulder, biting him through the fabric of his shirt as together they ride out the shocky wave of pleasure.

Gentler touch follows quickly, Washington withdrawing from Hamilton's body and slipping to the side, tugging Alexander against him in a softer embrace. There is a brush of lips at Hamilton's temple and a low breath that could almost be a sigh. Reluctance to let go in the way powerful arms encircle and hold him. The sun will be up soon, and the day's work will have to begin.

"Are you all right?" Hamilton asks.

The question earns him a startled chuckle.

"That is _my_ question to ask," Washington murmurs. "I'm not the one who woke being violated and ravaged."

Hamilton shivers with pleasure at how casually Washington says such potent words. _Violated_. _Ravaged_. The syllables twine beneath his skin and leave him breathless. He would gladly wake every morning that way. The ecstasy of it is still thrumming deep inside him. His ass aches pleasantly, though not so intensely it will distract him from his work.

"I loved it," Hamilton confesses. "I wish you could have finished without waking me. That you could take me _even harder_ , and then after, I would only realize what you'd done from the bruises and mess you left behind." Even now there is slickness between his thighs, oil and seed warm on his skin and wet inside him.

Washington trembles against him, clearly delighted at the idea. A long moment passes before he says in a voice rumbling with hunger, "It's a lovely fantasy, my boy."

Then Washington kisses him, slow and lingering, and says nothing else at all.


	6. Chapter 6

"You need to be more careful." Martha's voice is quiet, but there's a sternness that cuts straight through the quiet and demands every scrap of Washington's wandering attention.

He startles, stares at her across a small table laden with their modest dinner. Candles flicker at the center of the table, and a brighter lantern burns on the sideboard nearby. These are Martha's rooms in the Cochran home—a space Washington sees rarely.

A more attentive husband would visit regularly, would occasionally share her bed, but Martha has no such expectations of him. After so many years they are neither of them concerned with such appearances.

It helps that they share both wealth and status. People are more forgiving of eccentricities among the rich.

"Careful?" he echoes belatedly.

"With that boy of yours." She says the words fondly, but there is exasperation in her tone.

Even though they are alone, Washington twists in his seat to make sure the door is closed.

Martha snorts. " _Now_ you exercise discretion." She shakes her head and reaches for her glass of wine, holding him in a relentless stare. "You're getting careless. More so than before, I think. Your preoccupation with Alexander Hamilton has become… noticeable. Even in company."

Washington's blood chills. "I don't make a habit of touching him in public."

But he knows he has not been perfect. And he doesn't need to _touch_ for his possessiveness to be obvious—for it to be dangerous—a fact Martha doesn't bother pointing out in words. She just arches both eyebrows high on her forehead and takes a pointed sip of wine.

"You've built such a reputation for yourself." Martha sets her glass down with a clink. "Legendary self control. If only they all realized what it costs you. How violently you _feel_ , beneath all that iron."

Washington swallows and shakes his head. It is disconcerting to be recognized so thoroughly. To be _known_ , as Martha knows him.

"I've never seen you like this before." She says the words softly. Kindly. "In all your other dalliances, even your lengthiest affairs… You've never gotten attached."

"Alexander is different," Washington admits. It's easy to say the words to Martha. Easy to tell her this blunt and obvious truth.

"Why?" The question is sincere, not arguing or goading. She is genuinely curious. Because she cares for him. They've been friends a very long time.

Even given half a lifetime to consider his words, Washington could never distill his feelings for Alexander into a coherent explanation. But then, Martha is not asking for coherent. Martha knows he has no skill for words, for expressing himself. She watches him patiently, and Washington draws a slow breath. Lets his gaze fall to the table because it's easier than meeting her eyes when he answers.

"Alexander is loyal. And brilliant. And the things he asks of me… I never thought _anyone_ could so perfectly match my secrets. Every time I think I've gone too far, he begs me for more."

"He sounds insatiable," Martha says wryly.

"Yes," Washington agrees. "He is a constant challenge, personally _and_ professionally. I've never met anyone so devoted. Or so temperamental. Or so goddamn _stubborn_. If you had any idea how hard I tried _not_ to touch him…" Obviously he didn't try hard enough, but Washington can't bring himself to regret his faulty judgment.

"He must have made a convincing argument."

Washington snorts. "Alexander excels at arguing."

Martha falls quiet for a long time. Long enough Washington raises his head and finds a serious look on her face—a heavy consideration that stops him from opening his mouth to break the silence.

Finally she says, "You must still be more discreet. The boy's farce of a courtship won't shield him from scrutiny if _you_ can't keep your jealousy at bay."

"It's not a courtship."

"No," Martha agrees. "Which makes your position even more precarious. As far as the rest of the town is concerned, Elizabeth Schuyler is head over heels in love with your chief of staff. When he _does not marry her_ , what will they think? What man in Alexander's position can afford to turn down a woman so rich and well connected?"

Washington's hand curls into a frustrated fist atop his knee. Martha is right. Martha is _always_ right. He's gotten complacent again. No wonder Lafayette has been shorter with him than usual. The marquis, more than anyone else among Washington's staff, is sensitive to the less appropriate undercurrent uniting general and aide.

"I will do better," he vows.

Martha smiles kindly and reaches across the table to squeeze his arm. Then lets the matter drop, focusing on her half-finished meal and plying him with superficial questions.

It's not until more than an hour later that Washington departs Martha's chambers. He is sober despite the wine, and chilly despite the weight of his uniform. He is ready to return to headquarters, where the staff will be finishing their work for the evening.

Where Alexander will be waiting.

Before he reaches the main foyer, he startles to a stop at a flutter of skirts directly in his path. Elizabeth Schuyler stands before him, wearing a blue dress and a dark shawl. She peers up into his face, and her expression is almost a smile.

"Good evening, General. Could I have a word in private before you go?"

Washington follows her down a different hallway, into a room that must be her own. Smaller than Martha's accommodations, but lushly appointed. Plenty of soft chairs are positioned about the room, and she gestures him toward one. He sits. Decorum says the door should remain open, but he is somehow not surprised when Eliza closes it and sets the latch.

She claims the chair immediately beside him, adjusting her skirts as she sits and capturing him in a baldly assessing look.

"I think," she says, in a voice that carries more than a hint of steel beneath gentler tones, "that you and I are overdue for a conversation."

Washington can't argue otherwise. Even in public they've barely interacted since the night she caught him in the library of this very house. He refuses to blush at being cornered by a young woman—practically a child—even if she did witness him putting his hands on his boy. Even if she did chase him away, certain Alexander needed saving from the vile abuses of a superior officer.

It's clear from the way she's looking at him that she holds a different view now. Against all probability, Alexander has convinced her to keep this secret.

Perhaps Eliza follows the unspoken path of his thoughts, because after a moment's silence she says, "I won't apologize for accusing you. But I understand better now."

"And you truly haven't told anyone?" He hates himself a little for asking, but he needs the reassurance.

"Of course I haven't. Alexander is my friend. Why would I tell _anyone_ his private affairs?"

"There are those who consider our connection a crime. Not just because of my authority, but on moral grounds."

Eliza's expression turns sad. "I'm not here to judge you, General. Alexander adores you. And I think, perhaps, you feel the same for him. Who am I to interfere, when Alexander swears you aren't hurting him?"

Washington feels an incredulous laugh threaten in his chest, and he quashes it back down. He can't explain to Eliza why those words are comical. Even a contradictory Christian woman who has chosen to be forgiving of sodomy, would surely refuse to look the other way if she knew how violently Washington uses her friend.

"I appreciate your discretion," he says, managing to sound somber and sincere.

Eliza narrows her eyes. "Your Excellency, please let me be clear. My discretion is not for your benefit. Alexander is important to me, and I _will_ be watching. Your position, your prestige, your wealth… Those are all easy things to misuse. I don't know you. I have no reason to trust you beyond Alexander's insistence that you're a good man. If he ever expresses discontent, I won't hesitate to make your life difficult in order to protect my friend."

A glow of determination and hellfire sparks in Eliza's narrowed eyes, and Washington gawps at the bluntness of her words. Perhaps he should be offended. To be called out—threatened—by a child of seventeen.

But Washington is not offended. It is, in some strange and inexpressible way, a relief. Her words settle something jagged in his chest, and he turns his focus inward, desperate to figure out why. Realizes with a jolt that it's because someone else—someone with far more insight than he has allowed Lafayette—intends to mind Alexander's wellbeing. Those moments, increasingly rare, when Washington doubts his own judgment? The weight of them will be less, now that Elizabeth Schuyler cares for his boy too.

"Thank you," he says.

The simple gratitude seems to catch her off guard, but she recovers quickly. Smiles, an expression so wide and honest it fills the room with warmth.

The silence that follows would be easy to maneuver into a goodbye, but Washington finds himself curious. Helpless to deny the faint but ceaseless jealousy at the back of his heart. At least he manages to keep his voice bland when he speaks.

"Miss Schuyler, if you'll forgive an impertinent question… The whole town seems convinced you're in love with my— with Alexander. Why _aren't_ you pursuing him?"

Eliza stares at him in bald disbelief. "We _just_ finished discussing his feelings for you." Exasperation colors the words, but she doesn't sound angry. "And the truth is, I'm not interested in marriage. I have no desire for a husband to share my bed. Not even your charming Alexander." This last she says with an almost teasing quirk of her lips. Not quite a smile, but near enough to make Washington feel silly.

"I'm sorry for prying." He drops his eyes to the carpeted floor.

"You don't need to apologize. I'm not offended." A pause, and then she asks in a softer tone, "Didn't Alexander tell you all this?"

Washington shakes his head and forces himself to raise his eyes—he will not cower before a civilian—before answering, "He told me only that I shouldn't be jealous of your intentions. When I asked how he could be certain, he refused to elaborate." The evasion galled him, but he has not pressed his boy for more information.

Eliza's face breaks into a wide grin. "He's better at secret-keeping than I would've guessed."

Instead of agreeing and letting the matter drop, Washington hears himself ask haltingly, "Forgive me if this is too far, but… When you say you don't want a husband…?"

He tapers off. Leaving the query unfinished so that she can dodge it completely. This is none of his business, after all. _He_ is not her friend, and she is not one of his soldiers to command. 

But rather than evading, Eliza gives him a considering look. "I'm like Alexander, I suppose. Otherwise inclined. You needn't worry about me seducing him away. Even if he were susceptible, I don't desire that sort of companionship from men."

"Oh." Washington stares, once again floored by her candor and unsure how to respond.

She gives him a quieter, sadder look and says, "So long as you're good to him, you need not fear anything else from me either. I have no intention of undermining what happiness you two have managed to find."


	7. Chapter 7

He returns directly to headquarters, and finds the workroom empty. His conversation with Eliza took longer than he intended. The hour is gone well past midnight. No wonder Hamilton has dismissed the staff and banked the embers in the hearth.

The manor is empty and dark, barely warmer than the icy night air. Washington considers the front door—normally he does not lock it in case he's needed during the night—but for once he sets the latch. A greedy energy hums beneath his skin. It's a winding, vicious sensation he can only describe as _potential_. He needs to touch his boy tonight, and he will brook no interruptions.

His footsteps creek noisily on the stairs, traveling the distance more by feel than by sight. The landing is dark too. The only light—firelight—glows through a crack beneath the door to Washington's private quarters. Warmth greets him even before he opens the door, and when he steps through he is greeted by cozy heat. Even this drafty, imperfect mansion is no match for the fire burning hot in the corner stove.

Alexander is asleep. Not in bed, but seated at Washington's desk, slumped atop a veritable mountain of correspondence. The quill has fallen from his hand and splattered the page at the top of the stack. The ink bottle sits open to the air. Hamilton has shed his blue uniform coat in favor of working in shirtsleeves, and there is ink on one lacy cuff. His queue is all but undone, a staticky mess from all the times he's run restless fingers through it.

Affection and something more ferocious flare together in Washington's chest, and he takes a moment to indulge in the view. He savors the quiet. The image of his boy passed out atop his work, trying—and obviously failing—to wait up for Washington.

Then he pulls the bedroom door closed and sets the latch. He moves quietly across the room, not wanting to wake the boy just yet. He is soft, and surreptitious, and he clears the desk with deft efficiency. Capping and putting away the ink. Collecting the quill and setting it with the rest of Alexander's writing implements nearby. Gathering up all the foolscap scattered across the desk—even the papers beneath Alexander, though this requires careful execution indeed to lift his boy without jostling him.

Finally the desk is empty save for Alexander. Even the candle by which he was working has been moved to sit atop a different piece of furniture.

Anticipation sings along Washington's veins, and he smiles at his sleeping boy.

A moment later he banishes the gentle expression and crafts his face into a look of unyielding fury.

"You disappoint me, Alexander." He says the words loud enough to jar his boy from sleep, and is not disappointed when Hamilton jolts in place, blinking in surprise and confusion. 

Hamilton is obviously disoriented as he tips his head back and finds Washington staring pointedly down at him.

"S— _Sir_?" Hamilton licks dry lips but doesn't rise from his seat. "When did you get back?"

Washington steps forward—close enough that his thighs bump the front of the narrow desk—and twines his fingers cruelly in Hamilton's hair. He earns a grunt of discomfort for his trouble as he drags Hamilton forward.

"You would know _exactly_ how long I've been standing here," Washington murmurs coldly, "if you had not fallen asleep at your work. Such carelessness isn't like you." This last he says with a sneer, calculated to cut, and he is gratified by a tight clenching of Alexander's jaw. As though his boy is desperate to protest but trying to be smart.

"Have you been slacking all night?" Washington presses. "Did you even wait until the usual hour before sending the staff away? Or do I need to punish you for negligence as well as carelessness?"

Hamilton's eyes are watering, and Washington does not need to see his lap to know he is already diamond-hard. "Please don't punish me, sir. Oh god, I wasn't shirking my duties, I swear. Don't hurt me, _please_."

Washington's own cock stirs hungrily at the pretty way Alexander begs. There is something unearthly in his skill with words, the fantasies he spins so easily. The way he pleads for Washington not to hurt him. There was a time, earlier in their entanglement, when Washington would have harbored doubts in the face of such a performance.

But he knows his boy's limits now. He knows just how eager Alexander Hamilton is for every hurt and humiliation Washington deigns to bestow.

He drags Hamilton roughly forward now. Off-balance and all the way to the front of the desk. Leaving his body bent awkwardly over the smooth surface, legs straining to reach the ground. More importantly, this new position puts Hamilton's face _exactly_ where Washington wants it. Perfectly in line with the cock straining pale breeches.

Perfect in every possible way.

" _Stop_ ," Hamilton gasps, and makes an impressive effort to twist free.

Washington growls and tightens his fist in Hamilton's hair, earning a shrill cry and sudden stillness. He puts Hamilton back where he wants him with one hand, while with the other he undoes his laces and shoves his breeches down his thighs. He doesn't bother opening his waistcoat or shedding his uniform jacket. Just pulls his cock from beneath his shirt and guides it to Hamilton's mouth.

Hamilton's jaw remains tightly clenched, and he glares upwards with pure defiance.

Oh, it is going to be _that_ sort of night. Washington is glad. More than anything he wants to let loose tonight, never mind tomorrow's consequences. A desperate need to claim itches beneath his skin, and for once it is not born of jealousy. This is something else. Something even more ferocious. A hunger ignited by Eliza's choice of words— _happiness_ —he is _happy_ , and Alexander is his, and tonight he wants to ply his boy with a celebration of marks and bruises to prove it.

So Washington takes his hand off his cock and—without letting go the grip in Alexander's hair—slaps his boy with an open palm. The sound of impact fills the quiet room, and Alexander's surprised grunt of pain is delightful. Dark eyes clench shut in an expression of agony, but Washington does not miss the quick dart of Alexander's tongue along his lower lip. 

The unconscious gesture of anticipation swells affection in Washington's chest, a wild burst of tenderness for his insatiable boy.

He slaps Alexander again, then yanks his head back hard. "If you don't open your mouth, you will regret the consequences." He packs all the threat he can manage into the words, thrilling at the way Alexander swallows and shivers in answer.

Alexander's eyes open. A moment later so does his mouth, and Washington holds the boy still with both hands as he rolls his hips forward—as he slips his cock past grudgingly parted lips, into perfect wet heat.

He does not keep his movements leisurely now that he is here. He forces his cock forward until Alexander chokes—can't help the faint smile at the tormented sound of his boy struggling to take more—because he knows just how skillful Alexander normally is at this. How thoroughly capable of controlling his gag reflex unless Washington puts a great deal of effort into catching him off guard.

For his opening volley to make Alexander gasp and choke so violently means his boy is giving him this deliberately, playing more helpless and inexperienced than usual.

Perhaps it should not delight Washington as it does.

One last forward stutter of his hips, and his cock is sheathed completely down Alexander's spasming throat. Washington groans and rolls his hips without pulling out, just to feel the answering shudder. Another moment and Alexander's hands are rising from the desk, reaching uselessly forward to shove at Washington's thighs and stomach, trying to push him away.

Washington shifts his hold, unfisting his fingers from long hair in order to cup the back of Alexander's skull. With his unoccupied hand, he grabs one skinny wrist and pins it to the desk near a shaking shoulder. The other he leaves free. Much as he would love to restrain his boy completely, he can't risk taking away Alexander's only means of signaling a ceasefire. But he grips the trapped limb with unnecessary strength. When Alexander tries to yank free, Washington squeezes harder, crushing the wrist against unyielding wood. Alexander can't speak with Washington's entire cock blocking his airway, but the way his throat works makes Washington certain he is trying to scream.

He gives an unnecessarily rough yank, pinning the trapped wrist to the small of Alexander's back. Using this new position to lean his weight forward and pin his boy all the more sharply in place.

" _There_ ," Washington growls. "Isn't that better? Don't you want to serve your general well?"

He nearly laughs when Alexander tries to _shake his head_ , a futile gesture while his throat is stuffed with cock. Washington rewards the sheer cheek of it by drawing his hips back and shoving roughly forward again. Earning an agonized inhale cut short. He will need to let his boy breathe soon, but not quite yet. Not while Alexander is still fighting so impressively.

Endless seconds pass before Alexander's unimpeded hand stops pushing at his stomach and instead clenches helplessly in the fabric of his shirt. Only then does Washington draw back—not completely—not even _out of Alexander's throat_. Just far enough to allow air into straining lungs, so long as Alexander manages to suppress the instinct to gag around the continuing intrusion.

There are tears in those beautiful eyes, but Washington resists the urge to smile. He is not ready to compromise the fantasy just yet.

When he's sure he can resume without suffocating his boy, Washington fucks forward again with no warning. This time the startled choke sounds genuine; he has caught Alexander off guard. Good. He keeps moving, not allowing even a heartbeat to recover. Rutting deep only to withdraw—savoring the sensation of Alexander's tongue beneath the head of his cock—and then shoving forward once more. He keeps Alexander deliberately off-balance as he fucks the boy's overtaxed throat. The wet, wounded sounds that fill his quarters only spin Washington tighter, and he knows he will not last long.

But that's okay. It's more than okay. Washington fully intends to have his boy again tonight—no question his cock will rise to the occasion—and there's no harm in spending himself like this first.

His pace speeds as he nears the precipice, and Alexander begins to squirm more desperately. Pushing at him again. Thrashing beneath the hands holding him still. Alexander nearly manages to yank his wrist free from where Washington still holds it pinned behind him, and Washington growls and grips tighter still. Tighter than he should, perhaps. It's not Alexander's writing hand, but there is still no cause for carelessness.

He maintains the brutal grip anyway. Alexander has not tapped out, and his struggles only excite Washington further. Driving him nearer and nearer the edge as he fucks his cock repeatedly down Alexander's throat.

Ecstasy overtakes him like a sudden storm front, cresting and carrying him out of his own head. He shouts his boy's name—louder than he should even with headquarters empty—and stills with his cock wedged deep. Leaving Alexander no choice but to swallow as Washington's seed floods his throat.

He pulls out more gently when he is finished, though he allows no softness into his expression as he watches Alexander shake and shudder and cough. He lets go and takes a deliberate step back, the better to enjoy this demolished view of his boy as Washington puts his own softening cock away. He reties his breeches and rights his clothing—shrugs belatedly out of the heavy blue of his uniform jacket—all without taking his eyes off the trembling and crying wreck atop his desk.

"I'm sorry," Hamilton finally gasps, and the ruined gravel of his voice lights a fresh spark in Washington's chest. "Fuck, I'm sorry, I won't let you down again. _Please_ —"

"Please _what_ , Alexander?" Washington aims for a grim tone but is not quite successful at quashing the underlying glint of mischief.

Hamilton gets his arms beneath him and pushes shakily up from the desk, giving an exaggerated flinch as the movement puts weight on his bruised wrist. The words are a tortured rasp, his eyes downcast. "Please don't hurt me anymore. Sir." The 'sir' is tacked on to the end like a desperate afterthought.

Washington's blood _sings_ with the need to fulfill his boy's needs. To devastate him. To show him Washington alone can give him everything he craves and more.

"Come here," Washington orders.

Hamilton stares. A show of hesitation, of wide eyes and tears. Those parted lips are swollen and bruised, and his face is a mess of spit and come.

Hamilton raises a trembling arm and wipes the mess away with his sleeve. "Sir?" There is something incredulous in his eyes.

"I won't hurt you further," Washington lies. " _Come here_."

Another reluctant moment passes, but at last Hamilton obeys. Rounds the desk and approaches the center of the room, stopping directly in front of Washington. He stands at attention, posture tense, gaze turned toward the floor. His hair is a mess falling out of his queue, and he looks utterly debauched.

"Close your eyes," Washington commands.

Hamilton gives a start, gawps at him, and conspicuously does not obey.

"I said _close your eyes_ ," Washington repeats with a softer, more threatening tone. "Unless you would prefer to try and leave." He does not bother to say out loud what will happen then. He doesn't need to. Hamilton can't possibly move fast enough to evade him, and in physical strength he is no match for his general. Attempting to escape would be fruitless, and it is a fact of which they are both vividly aware.

At last Hamilton's eyes close. The breath he draws is a ragged thing, and he is visibly trembling.

Washington smiles now that he can do so unobserved, and begins to circle.

"Keep them closed." He does not bother to quiet his steps. If anything he moves heavily, letting Hamilton hear him clearly as he paces in a possessive circle. Once. Twice. Finally stopping immediately behind him and falling utterly still.

"Are you scared, Alexander?"

"No," Hamilton answers, but the word comes out tight. Not just bruised with gravel, but thick with feeling.

Washington hums a quiet sound, heavy with skepticism. Then, moving more quietly, he reaches for the buckle of his belt. Despite his attempt to be discreet, the metal buckle clinks audibly as he slips the leather strap loose, and Hamilton flinches forward at the sound.

No—Hamilton doesn't just flinch—he _bolts_ , darting in the direction of the locked door. He's quick. It's impressive, honestly, the speed with which he goes from stillness to an all-out run. He has a hand on the latch when his general slams into him from behind, heavy strength knocking him bodily against the door with a thud and a startled grunt.

Without dropping the belt, Washington gets hold of his boy's wrists and yanks them back without any vestige of gentleness. Hamilton jerks against his grip, but Washington holds him easily. He is well practiced at this particular game. And he is aided by the fact that—for all the ferocity of his resistance—Hamilton does not truly want to get away.

It's still a challenge, keeping him immobilized and simultaneously maneuvering the belt around his wrists. Soft leather, pliable, perfect for cinching rebellious arms in place—binding them tight and inescapable at Hamilton's back. Hamilton's struggles are ineffectual; when he grudgingly stills he is trapped just the same. Trapped all the worse, perhaps. Washington might not have wound the leather quite so tight if his boy had behaved.

" _That_ ," Washington murmurs, leaning along Alexander's back and brushing the words directly against his ear, "was a foolish thing to attempt."

"Please," Hamilton rasps. " _Fuck_ , please let me go."

"I don't think so." Washington's cock is already beginning to stir again, renewed arousal warming faster than he anticipated. Alexander's pointless attempt at escape, his fruitless struggles—they are better than any aphrodisiac. They make Washington _burn_ to possess his boy.

For all Washington's patience—he is in no hurry to finish too soon—he gives an idle roll of his hips, grinding his clothed cock against Alexander's bound hands.

The movement earns him a helpless, wordless, pleading whimper of recognition. Washington's chest heats with anticipation—for Alexander's inevitable pleading—for the rasping, desperate voice when he begs his general not to fuck him.

He savors the moment. The thrill of power. Reaches for Alexander's cravat and tugs it away—throws it carelessly to the floor—so he can capture the soft line of Alexander's throat between his teeth and dig in with vicious strength. He's careful not to break the skin, but oh does he come close.

It is, in a strange and intimate way, charming that Alexander can't resist tilting his head to give him better access. The instinctive submission—subtle encouragement—despite the cruel play they are enacting. Washington rewards the gesture with another bite, lower than the first, just above the join of neck and shoulder. This time he seals his lips over the spot, not just biting but sucking a deep bruise into sensitive flesh. He knows he will see Hamilton fidgeting unconsciously with the spot tomorrow, touching it while he works. His boy cherishes every mark.

Washington wishes he could leave bruises higher. _Visible_. Stamp his possessiveness into Alexander's skin for all to see. A whole necklace of bruises just below his jaw.

An impractical fantasy. Washington slides his mouth lower and bestows another aching gift.

After tasting his fill for the moment, Washington backs off just far enough to manhandle Alexander into a new position—turning him, pinning him with his back to the door—holding him in place with the same ominous strength. Alexander's eyes are wild, his generous lips parted, his chest heaving shallowly as though he can't catch his breath. The bites at his throat have not yet darkened to proper bruises, but they are red and angry—showing the unmistakable imprint of teeth—and Washington takes a moment to admire his work.

It occurs to him that he should have divested Hamilton of his clothing _before_ binding his arms. A longer struggle, to be sure, but one that would have avoided the conundrum he faces now. Hamilton remains fully dressed, and all Washington wants is bare skin beneath his hands.

Hamilton's voice still sounds gloriously wrong—and likely will through tomorrow, given the abused state of his throat—but he speaks anyway. "What are you going to do to me?"

The smallness of the question—the lost and helpless tone—sends a torrent of heat into Washington's belly. He crushes forward, taking Alexander's mouth in a bruising kiss. Enjoys the startled squeak his boy breathes as Washington captures his lips with unrelenting force, and the way Alexander squirms at the sharp thrust of Washington's tongue. It's a deep kiss. Slow and forceful and greedy.

He gets to work on Alexander's waistcoat. There are too damn many buttons, but Washington tackles them one by one. When they are finished, he backs away—memorizing the hazed pleasure in his boy's face—and fists both hands in the front of Alexander's shirt.

The shirt gives way easily at the first yank, threadbare as the fabric is. Washington tears it straight down the front, baring Alexander's chest and stomach. The boy rouses at the sound and sensation of ripping fabric. He jerks uselessly beneath Washington's hands. Makes a show of trying to get away, though the door at his back prevents any retreat at all.

" _Stop_ ," he gasps.

Washington only shifts his attention to the laces of Hamilton's breeches, undoing the ties and dragging the loosened garment down his thighs. Hamilton tries to keep his legs together, but the effort barely poses any extra difficulty.

Washington pauses anyway, just long enough to slap Hamilton hard, knocking his head to the side.

"Stop fighting me, you ungrateful brat." He injects a convincing air of scorn into the command. Wrathful threat.

Hamilton keeps his head tilted down, remaining where Washington's blow put him. He swallows hard, the line of his throat working visibly beneath the marks left by Washington's mouth.

God, Alexander is beautiful. Awe rises sharply in Washington's chest—worship twists beneath his skin—and it is surreal to recognize just how right Elizabeth Schuyler is. How desperately, deliriously happy Alexander makes him.

The boy leaves him breathless.

Washington allows a moment of stillness, tucking these certainties away like newfound treasure.

Then, steadily, he curls one hand around Hamilton's throat. Squeezes not quite tightly enough to cut off his boy's air—this is not his preferred method for stopping Alexander's breath—but with enough strength to make it clear he _could_. Alexander will appreciate the threat even if Washington has no intention of following through.

Dark eyes widen when Washington uses the grip to force Hamilton's head up. To capture him in a piercing stare that allows no evasion, as Washington's other hand presses hot to the flushed skin of his chest. Hamilton's lungs hitch in an uncertain breath, and Washington lets the touch skim lower. A brief detour to bestow a cruel pinch at one nipple. A pause over his trembling stomach. And then he reaches between shaking thighs to grip the line of Hamilton's cock, sudden and harsh and not at all pleasurable.

" _No_ ," Hamilton chokes, but the word comes out reedy and thin. Between his misused throat and the hand limiting his air, there is no strength behind the protest.

Washington tightens this new grip cruelly, earning a whimper—Alexander catches his lower lip between his teeth in a fruitless effort to stifle the sound—and a sudden complete stillness as his struggles cease.

"Stubborn." Washington tightens his grip at Hamilton's throat just a fraction, pressing a contradictory kiss to his temple at the same moment. "Why do you fight the inevitable? You know _full well_ you can't stop me from taking what I want. No matter how hard you fight, I am going to violate you anyway."

Hamilton shivers beneath his touch, and Washington hopes his answering smile looks cruel instead of fond. He is not, by nature, a talker—but he has noticed the way his Alexander responds to the extra viciousness the right words can provide. The flash of humiliation undoes Alexander. The more monstrous the words, the more instantaneous the effect.

And after all, there is very little Washington will ever refuse his boy.

"Why fight your own nature?" Washington murmurs now, grinning wickedly at the way Hamilton opens his mouth but fails to speak. "It's obvious you crave this. Feel how hard you are, Alexander. Your body was made to be debased and filled for another man's pleasure."

Hamilton is glaring eloquently. Washington loosens his grip, but keeps his fingers curled gently at the base of Hamilton's throat. An idle threat.

"Something you want to say, my boy?"

"Either take your hands off me or stop playing around," Hamilton snarls, and _oh_ , it is enchanting the way he manages to channel taut anticipation into such a convincing semblance of bravado and fear. If they had not played this game so many times, Washington would be very nearly convinced as his boy continues, "If you're going to rape me, fucking _do it_ and get it over with." The audible tremble in that fucked-ragged voice sends an eager shiver the length of Washington's spine.

"Oh, you naive creature," Washington groans, tightening his crushing grip between Hamilton's legs just to make him whimper and writhe. "I have no intention of finishing quickly. How can I expect the lesson to stick if it's over too soon?"

He lets go as abruptly as he grabbed hold in the first place, and puts his hands on Hamilton in a completely new configuration—rough and guiding now—dragging him away from the door and throwing him face-first over the edge of their bed. Hamilton lands only partially on the mattress, bent at the waist, feet reaching the floor. Just enough leverage he could probably stand up if Washington weren't already on him, deftly stripping away Hamilton's boots along with every scrap of clothing from the waist down.

He succeeds despite Hamilton's increasingly violent struggles. More fabric tears in his haste. Washington doesn't care; he has long since made sure his boy has spare uniforms. This is not the first time he's gotten carried away.

" _Fuck_ ," Hamilton groans as Washington shoves him—naked but for his waistcoat and ruined shirt—up onto the bed. Washington does not follow just yet.

He wishes like hell he could tie Alexander to the bed, but even frantic with arousal he has too much sense for that. What they're already doing would be difficult enough to conceal, but possible if they are interrupted. Undoing knot work before he can get his boy out of sight? Too risky and time-consuming. He will have to accept the limitations of reality encroaching just slightly into the fantasy they have crafted together.

"Do not move." He edges the words with unmitigated threat. Hamilton lies on his stomach, but his face is turned sideways so that he can watch Washington with glittering eyes. Hamilton's cheek is squashed into the mattress, his hair feathering staticky over the pillow.

For once he obeys the admonishment, fidgeting only slightly atop the bed; Washington pretends not to notice the abortive little movements of hips rutting forward, seeking friction where it is most needed. If Hamilton comes before Washington deigns to fuck him, it will only render the event more torturous—the dry drag of Washington's cock along over-sensitized flesh, an extra torment for which Washington will not apologize.

He moves efficiently now, crossing the room to collect a second belt. Newer. Crisp leather with smooth edges. His boy can't take nearly as many strokes from this implement as from the softer, more age-worn belt that binds his arms. Washington will have to moderate his strength. None of this dissuades him as he slides his sword and scabbard off and sets them aside, looping the belt in half as he returns to the bed and its eager occupant.

"Oh god," Hamilton breathes and wriggles on the blankets, an ineffectual attempt to reach the far edge and escape. He chokes a frantic sound when Washington easily grabs and moves him right back into place. "Fuck— You _can't_."

"If you don't keep still, I will tie you down." Empty as the threat is—and gladly as Washington _knows_ his boy would welcome such treatment—Hamilton still subsides. It's not as though he has the leverage to escape even with his legs free. He has already tried and failed. He could try again, but then, they are both eager for this. Hamilton even more so than Washington, most likely; his general has not fulfilled him this way since Lafayette's discovery of their affair, and the eagerness pouring off him is palpable.

Washington stands beside the bed, taking his time. Leisurely when he finally reaches down to touch, grasping Alexander's thighs and spreading them wide. Leaving him exceedingly vulnerable for the blows that are coming. When he lets go to shove Hamilton's shirt up his back, tucking the loose fabric out of the way beneath bound arms, his boy tries to close his legs.

" _No_ ," Washington snaps, forcing him back into position with unnecessary roughness. "Stay. There."

Hamilton trembles but exercises better obedience this time, squirming but leaving his thighs spread when the commanding touch disappears.

"Count," Washington says, sternness undercutting the word.

Then he takes tighter hold of the looped belt—the metal of the buckle warm now in his palm—and swings.

" _One_ ," Alexander yelps at the impact. Washington has used at most a quarter of his strength, but the stripe of skin where the leather landed has already turned an angry pink darkening towards red.

He swings again.

" _Two_." Pain and surprise echo in Alexander's voice, and he wriggles in place, obviously fighting the instinct to close his legs—to protect his sensitive parts and soft inner thighs—even though Washington has not yet come near them.

" _Three_ ," Alexander chokes when a third stroke takes him lower. Every stripe raises welts across both cheeks of his ass, angry and stinging and red.

The next blow Washington lands directly between his boy's legs, delighting at the way Alexander's entire body convulses and he has to bury his agonized shriek in the bedclothes.

" _Fuck_ ," Hamilton gasps as he struggles to keep his legs spread. "F— Four."

Late, but acceptable. Washington pauses and reaches his unoccupied hand forward, touches the flushed and angry flesh. Hamilton flinches at the gentle caress. His skin burns with feverish heat already and they have barely begun. Washington's cock jumps impatiently, but he sets his own arousal aside and raises his swinging arm once more.

" _Five_." The word is almost indecipherable as Hamilton muffles it, a helpless cry, in the blankets beneath his face. He shudders when Washington follows up too quickly with an even harder strike, nearer half his strength. "S— _Ngh_ — _Six_."

"Too much?" Washington teases, touching feverish skin again.

"Fuck you," Hamilton pants, shoulders shaking, wrists twisting helplessly in their unforgiving restraints. Pure rebellion. Washington swings again—just as hard and in exactly the same place—punishment for mouthing off.

Hamilton cries out, graveled voice bright and sharp, and barely manages to hide his face and muffle the sound in time. He does not say 'seven'. Washington allows the lapse to slide. But he does angle his arm to place an especially vicious blow once more at the sensitive juncture between trembling thighs, landing the looped leather dead-center across his boy's tight hole.

The answering scream is too loud for discretion, even muted by blankets, and Washington returns to less punishing blows, laying long stripes across his boy's ass and lower back. Alexander is crying—shoulders heaving with exertion—and even these lesser blows earn ragged sobs as they land across flesh that is already red and welted and bruising.

The counting does not resume, but Washington doesn't admonish him for it. Such an effort is clearly beyond Alexander in this moment, and Washington is content to watch him deteriorate. Strike number eleven crosses the backs of both reddened thighs. Twelve lands higher and harder, straight across both round cheeks of Alexander's ass, and Alexander's whole body spasms as he clenches his thighs together.

Washington does not hesitate to yank those legs roughly apart once more, even as a line of blood beads where the stiff edge of the belt broke abused skin. Alexander resists this time, and the fractured sob he breathes is eloquent agony. His wrists and arms pull frantically in their bonds, useless but desperate resistance as Washington's tortures test the limits of his overtaxed endurance.

When Hamilton speaks it's not to voice one of their code words, but to hiss a pleading, " _Stop_."

He moans when Washington traces exploring fingers over the belt-reddened skin between his cheeks, the twitching rim of his ass.

"Get your fucking hands off me!" The words are more tearful than spirited. Less fight than fear. His beautiful boy, so close to overcome. So stubborn. And yet still so rebellious, the surest proof that he is still delighting in every agony.

Washington takes his fingers away and bestows another hard stripe, earns another yelp and sob. More blood beads up, this line crossing the first at a shallow angle. He lays down a third stroke to match, and then—knowing he is in danger of reaching Alexander's limits if he continues—he lets the loop of leather fall loudly to the floor.

This time Hamilton's sob is unmistakably relief. He squirms in place, but keeps his legs obediently open.

"Good boy," Washington purrs, the gentlest words he has spoken all night.

Hamilton sobs again as the worst of the tension eases from his shoulders. He remains boneless and pliable as Washington joins him on the bed; barely tries to jerk away when his general settles behind him and between his knees.

"Why are you doing this?" Hamilton rasps, squeezing his eyes shut and letting fresh tears soak his already shining face.

"Because I want to." Washington delivers an openhanded slap to abraded skin for the impertinent question. "Because you are beautiful like this. And because you were _made_ to take my cock."

He has himself in hand now. His own hard length, slick with nothing more than precome, desperate to plunge into impossibly tight heat.

Alexander writhes as his general leans over him. Washington braces one hand atop bound wrists and nudges the head of his cock against the tight rim.

"Breathe, Alexander. If you don't relax, this is going to hurt you terribly." It will hurt him terribly regardless; that is the entire point. They are both riled with familiar anticipation as the moment approaches.

" _Don't_ ," Hamilton begs, tearful and gorgeous. "T— Take my mouth again. I'll be better this time, I swear! Don't sodomize me, _please_ —"

The pleading cuts short, interrupted by a shattered scream as Washington forces his way past resisting muscle and into Alexander's body.

The scream is muffled almost instantly—fast enough Washington isn't worried the sentries will come investigate despite the strength of the sound. Hamilton shoves his face into the pillow, his body jostled far enough along the bed to reach it now, barely containing his keening cry. The steady sound splinters higher with every shove of Washington's hips, the unforgiving length impaling him by brutal and unremitting degrees.

Washington does not allow his own discomfort to slow his pace. He is well accustomed to the vice-like tightness, the grudging drag of sensation as he rams his cock in too fast, the dry friction almost too much. It doesn't bother him. It's part of the game; and whatever discomfort might reach him, the agony he is causing his boy must be tenfold worse at least.

A point proven by the way Hamilton's cries continue, breaking only to suck in shaky, desperate breaths. Beautiful noises, despite being choked away into soft fabric—Washington wishes he could truly hear them—expressive and inarticulate and lovely.

Washington drops his weight forward when his cock can go no farther. He blankets Hamilton's spine, crushing him into the mattress. His boy is making new sounds now—panting shallowly into the pillow, shuddering breaths sliding into whimpers and mews. Thoughtless, ridiculous, inhuman sounds.

Washington does not allow any time to adjust to the intrusion. Still pressed along Hamilton's back—giddily aware of the feverish inferno of his boy's bruised and welted ass—Washington rolls his hips. Withdraws his cock halfway with a drag of friction that earns a new, louder whimper. Fucks forward hard, plunging his entire length home and savoring the wounded shriek.

He repeats the maneuver, sharp movement jostling the bed.

His fourth thrust is smoother, and he knows his boy is bleeding. Would know just as surely from the way the fight goes abruptly out of him. The wild, wounded noises from Alexander's throat don't stop—if anything they grow more desperate as Washington fucks him more fiercely—but the physical resistance is gone. There is something almost unnatural in the stillness that holds Alexander as his general mounts him—as Washington's cock pounds ceaselessly into him, each thrust more merciless than the last. If it weren't for the gasps and whimpers, the hoarse screams that rise when he speeds his pace, he would wonder if Alexander had managed to pass out beneath the onslaught.

He knows every thrust is hurting his boy—not just inside where Washington's cock is brutalizing him—but along his ass and thighs where every brush of skin can only be fresh torture. A perfect symphony of pain; an indulgence he has not been able to give Alexander in far too long.

Washington is groaning words of praise now. His rough rutting is counterbalanced by an avalanche of affection that he is helpless to contain. There is no point pretending anger or punishment now. He lacks the focus to maintain any illusion of careless disdain.

He bites Alexander's shoulder when he comes, after dragging the edges of shirt and waistcoat aside to find bare skin. Washington's hips stutter and stop as he impales Alexander with his cock and spills, deep and intimate. His eyes shut tight and he moans into Alexander's skin, hands gripping his boy's thighs with bruising strength in order to keep him still.

The moments after are softer, as he eases more carefully off of his boy—withdrawing his cock as gently as he can—but even so his efforts earn a hiss of pain.

He unwinds the belt from Hamilton's wrists, discarding it over the side of the bed and guiding his boy onto his back. Hamilton is unsteady, but content to be maneuvered, and to let Washington massage feeling into his hands, wrists, fingers. Hamilton's smooth skin is marred where the belt dug into him, and where he strained against the leather so hard he nearly broke the skin. But he doesn't protest any of the surely uncomfortable sensations, as Washington kneels above him and rubs abraded flesh.

When Hamilton grows more restless, Washington lets go of his arms and leans down to kiss him. Softer this time. Conveying without words the overwhelming tide of affection.

Hamilton stretches lazily into the kiss, reaches up to wind his arms around Washington's shoulders, nearly pulls him off balance. Washington braces on one arm and lets himself be tugged down into Hamilton's space, lingering and allowing himself to enjoy this closeness. He eases his boy down by degrees, soothing the riled edges of exhausted energy.

"Stay here." It's an unnecessary command as Washington climbs out of bed and crosses his quarters to the pitcher of water by his washbasin. The water is lukewarm at this hour, but it's clean, and he wets a cloth.

As he returns to the bed he sees Hamilton struggling free of his sleeves and waistcoat, sitting stubbornly upright despite the grimace of discomfort on his face. Washington slows his pace, waiting until the task is complete. Even now, in the quieter moments after claiming his boy, Washington enjoys seeing the impact of his endeavors. It takes longer than it should, but Hamilton finally succeeds at dropping the last of his clothing to the floor and falls onto his back with a satisfied sigh.

Washington taps Hamilton's knee without a word, and is gratified when he spreads his legs without hesitation, providing a shameless view of his spent cock and the slick mess between his thighs. His movements are languid despite the fact that he must assuredly be in pain. It's quick work cleaning Hamilton and then himself, for all that Washington has indeed made quite a mess of them both.

"Turn over so I can tend to your backside," Washington says when he is finished. "I have a salve that will help—"

"No." Sleepy petulance tinges Alexander's refusal, and his eyes drift closed. "Stop fussing and come back here."

"You will be in no condition to leave this bed tomorrow if I don't tend your wounds tonight."

Hamilton cracks one eye open. "You think I can't handle a little pain?"

"I think you will be contending with significantly more than a _little_ pain. Turn over. I'm not sleeping until I make sure you're all right."

With an exaggerated huff, Hamilton obeys, still favoring the wrist Washington handled so roughly at the start of their encounter. Washington makes a mental note to keep a close watch and make sure his boy does not try to conceal a more lasting harm.

This part is also quick work, and Washington rinses his hands in the basin when he is finished. Strips out of his own uniform and adds more wood to the cheerful fire burning in the stove. He keeps his shirt on— _one_ of them will have to be able to answer the door if anyone tries to summon him in the night—and blows out the candles. Guides Alexander beneath the covers and slips into the bed behind him.

With both a grunt of pain and a characteristic show of stubbornness, Alexander turns to face him. Washington settles on his back and raises his arm so that Alexander can nestle down along his side and rest his head on Washington's chest. Sated warmth radiates from his boy, and Washington smiles, pressing a kiss to an almost feverish forehead.

Alexander hums happily and nuzzles beneath his chin.

"When did you come?" Washington slips his arm around Alexander's waist and tucks him close. He resists the urge to trail a hand down the small of his back, the swell of his ass. It is late and they both need to calm down. Rest. _Sleep_.

It still requires conscious willpower to resist the temptation.

Hamilton huffs an almost soundless laugh, and answers with quiet gravel. "Around the time you shoved your cock inside me dry, you absolute sadist." He is smiling as he says it—Washington can hear the amusement in the words—sees it written across his boy's face when he eases back to look at him properly.

"Did I hurt you?" Washington asks lightly.

"Yes, you hurt me," Hamilton retorts, his habitual and satisfied answer. "You tore me apart. You'll split me in half one day."

Washington can't resist ducking his head for a proper kiss. Hamilton opens for him immediately, and they explore each other. Slow and intimate and perfect.

" _Sleep_ , Alexander," Washington murmurs at last. "That's an order."

Hamilton yawns and snuggles down against his chest. "Yes, sir." The words are bleary and warm. They swell Washington's heart with too many feelings at once. He closes his eyes and draws a deep breath. 

Long after Hamilton's breathing steadies out, Washington finally—exhaustedly—sleeps.


	8. Chapter 8

The next day Hamilton is glad for Washington's forethought in insisting on the salve. He has no idea what was in the concoction. Whatever the arrangement of herbs and oils and medicines, it is the only reason he’s upright when the workroom downstairs begins to fill, his fellow aides noisy enough Hamilton can hear them even through the floor of Washington's private chamber.

Washington himself has already departed—not just from their bed but from camp—though only after reassurances that Hamilton was well enough to manage his morning routine alone.

If Hamilton is moving more slowly than usual, it isn't because the task is beyond him. Just that, salve or not, he’s in significant pain. Welcome, but still a challenge in the light of day. He dresses with care, checking and double checking that he isn’t bleeding. His white shirt and breeches would certainly not hide such proof of his indiscretions.

It isn't until he's seated at his place in the workroom, ignoring the throbbing of sore flesh and idly touching the most tender bruise beneath his cravat, that he remembers he is supposed to meet Eliza and her sisters for dinner.

He has no choice but to postpone. The letter he jots is quick and cryptic, claiming duties in camp prevent him from leaving. He sends the missive off immediately, and is not surprised to receive an answer well before the dinner hour. Eliza conveys polite disappointment and invites him to visit tomorrow.

Hamilton accepts the followup invitation. In truth, if he were in any condition to carry on conversation, he would prefer to join them tonight. Washington's absence from camp means a too-quiet evening and an empty bed. Hamilton will spend the next several nights worrying even though Washington is attempting nothing more dangerous than a circuit of nearby towns to requisition supplies.

Hamilton would have accompanied him, but his presence is essential during the general's absence. Even were Hamilton capable of sitting a horse today, he would have been left behind to handle any emergencies that might arise in camp.

He chafes despite the soundness of the arrangement. He belongs at his general's side; surely headquarters could mind itself for a few short days.

"Are you taking ill?" John Laurens sets a tin mug of soup—watery and dubious but warm from the hearth—at Hamilton's elbow and sits in the empty chair beside him. "You sound awful, and you look worse."

Hamilton chokes a startled laugh and stares at his friend. "Thank you. What a kind thing to say."

Laurens plucks the quill from his hand and nudges the cup toward him. "Seriously. Drink this. Haven't you been sleeping?"

Hamilton is careful not to let the lace of his sleeves slip and show his wrists as he accepts the mug of broth and takes a sip. It _does_ feel good on his throat. Easing exhausted muscle and soothing the ache that has been so slow to fade. He drinks more before he sets the cup back down.

"I hope you're not planning to keep your date with the Schuylers," Laurens murmurs. "If Eliza sees you looking like this she will never marry you." There's genuine teasing in the tone. A lightness that says Laurens is not truly worried for Hamilton's chances.

Hamilton rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "She will never marry me regardless. I told you I'm not courting her."

"Alexander—"

"And no," Hamilton continues, "I've postponed our dinner plans. I'll be better company tomorrow."

"Or you'll have collapsed under the weight of your own failing health," Laurens suggests brightly. "Might I suggest a new strategy tonight? Put the work aside and _sleep_."

"Maybe I would have an easier time _finishing_ my work if my friends did not distract me constantly." It's a ridiculous argument. A superficial game they've been playing for months. Across the table Lafayette snorts, despite his stubborn efforts to pretend he is not paying any attention.

Laurens tosses a melted stump that used to be sealing wax across the table. It bounces off Lafayette's forehead and lands on the numbers he is calculating in orderly columns on the paper before him. Lafayette raises his head and glares at Laurens, but the expression has no real heat.

When Lafayette's gaze slips to Hamilton, there is a silent moment—an understanding too intimate—and they both look away quickly. It's an uncomfortable thing, to have one's secrets known as Lafayette knows them. With fear, and disapproval, and a perplexed inability to understand. Hamilton has not tried to explain himself, and Lafayette hasn't asked. But the young marquis clearly disapproves of the affair between general and aide, and he has made no effort to mask his concern.

It's a small blessing that Laurens hasn't picked up on the impasse. An even larger blessing that, somehow, Laurens still does not suspect the true nature of Hamilton's devotion to his general. Guilt gnaws at him, keeping such a secret from his closest friend, but he sees no alternative. There's no way to be certain what his hotheaded friend will do, and too many possibilities end in disaster. Better to keep the secret and avoid unnecessary risk.

Hamilton sleeps grudgingly that night. And when he wakes to a bed far colder and emptier than usual, he is sullen about it.

The next night he dines at the Cochran house, with all three of the Schuyler women in attendance. His voice is almost normal—the faint scratchiness that remains is easy enough to wave off as an effect of the cold—and it's easier to move naturally. He has long practice pretending away inconvenient discomforts, and he has no trouble setting aside distracting sensation in favor of pleasant company.

He remains careful of his sleeves, careful of his posture, careful to appear at ease. By the time dessert is brought, he really _is_ at ease. He hasn't known them long, but it's easy to adore the Schuylers. To appreciate the warmth and protectiveness they share, to let himself be absorbed into their fond teasing and their tentative hopes for a future beyond the war.

He doesn't always know what to make of the way Angelica watches him, sharp and focused and smart. There's a canniness to her gaze, and he wonders if she sees through his uniform and bravado to the childhood he barely survived.

Peggy is simpler. Cheerful, uncomplicated, unrepentantly judgmental. She takes things at face value, and she is an endless font of gossip and information about Hamilton's supposed betters.

And of course there's Eliza, who knows him better than anyone except Washington. Who keeps inviting him closer, a genuine and unflinching friend. Strange to think it, but after only a few short weeks he can't imagine his life without her—without _all three_ of the Schuyler women—sharing his circle as kindred spirits.

It's late when they finish dessert, and Eliza alone sees him to the door. The main foyer is empty, a chilly space thanks to the wintry draft beneath the massive front doors.

"Thank you for having me," he says as he takes his surcoat down from the peg. Cold as it's been, he didn't dare cross Morristown in only his uniform, and he is glad for the decision now. With nightfall it is even more frigid outside, and the wind has grown stronger through the evening. It might be snowing, maybe even sleeting. 

Given Washington's continued absence from camp, Hamilton is in no hurry to trek through the unwelcome weather.

"Thank _you_ for joining us. My sisters enjoy your company." She reaches for his arm as she says it. An unexpected gesture, though one he should have anticipated. It's not as though she hasn't squeezed his wrist in greeting or farewell before.

But he's tired, and slow to react, and he does not see it coming. When her fingers close over the lace of his sleeve and grip tightly, just for a moment, he flinches in surprise and jerks free. Her touch isn't even that painful—his wrists certainly hurt less than other portions of his anatomy—but the reaction is pure instinct. Thoughtless and physical. And though he immediately recognizes his mistake, there's no way to take it back.

Eliza's eyes narrow and she stares at him hard. Suspicious.

When she moves, it's with such focused speed he doesn't have time to react. She grabs him by the elbow with one hand, yanks his sleeve up with the other. Gets a good look at his bruised and abraded wrist even in the imperfect light of strategically placed candelabra.

Her jaw clenches and her fingers tighten at his elbow. A moment of perfect stillness passes between them and then she's dragging him down the hall, through the nearest door. Into the small study that passes for a library. There are candles burning here as well. Plenty of illumination as Eliza closes the door with a nudge of her bustled backside and propels Hamilton farther into the room.

" _Sit_ ," she snarls, shoving him down onto a wooden chair.

Once again he fails to mask his reaction—this time not only a flinch, but an audible grunt of pain as he lands hard on the welts that stripe his skin, and the movement jars the more intimate hurt of his well-fucked ass. Once again Eliza's eyes narrow dangerously. Protectively. Her gaze roves over him as though searching for further clues.

Perhaps he should not be surprised when she takes hold of his cravat and yanks it away, gaining an unobstructed view of the bite-shaped bruises mottling Hamilton's neck. Unapologetic imprints of his general's teeth.

Fuck.

"What the hell are you doing?" His voice, even with its hint of gravel, sounds more like a startled yelp than a rebuke. He reaches for the cravat and steals it back with a tug, hurrying to retie it. "What if someone comes through that door? Are you trying to ruin us both?" Bad enough they're in this room alone—a transgression that can be easily enough explained—but for any hint of impropriety or undress to accompany their discovery would be disastrous.

Eliza doesn't rise to the bait. Instead she glares, wildfire in her eyes, and says softly, "You told me he was not misusing you."

"Eliza—"

"No." Her voice is unbending iron. "You begged me not to interfere. You _swore to me_ that everything transpiring between you was consensual."

"It was. It _is_!"

"Then why are you _injured_? Why are you battered as though you've been in a physical altercation?"

Hamilton finishes fussing with his cravat and breathes a low sigh, resignation in the sound. "Oh, Eliza. You ask the most impossible questions."

She eyes him suspiciously. "You're not going to try and convince me I'm wrong?"

"No. It's far too late to start lying to you." He tries to inject the words with a lightness he doesn't feel. The truth is he's terrified. Eliza has been his only true supporter; the only person to see what his general is to him and… not _approve_ exactly, but accept. To concede that he is precisely where he wants to be—that he is happy.

To be happy _for him_ , even though she's made no secret of her trepidation and desire to see him safe.

But surely she will not approve of this. Of the violence he welcomes at Washington's hands; the lines he and his general cross together. He has grown so dependent on her friendship. How will he bear it if he loses her now?

Eliza pulls a matching chair from a different corner of the room and places it near Hamilton's side. She sits delicately. Daintily. Brushing her skirts out of the way and keeping her back straight.

When she finally speaks, her tone is soft and measured. "He hurt you."

"He _delighted_ me. Yes he held me down, and yes I fought him. But I was perfectly willing."

Eliza's voice rises with confused frustration. "You cannot be willing _and fight him_!"

"Yes, I can." Hamilton keeps his own volume low, reluctant to tell her to keep her voice down but hoping to quiet her. This is not a conversation he wants interrupted. "It's not a contradiction. I know how it sounds, but I _like to fight_. Washington and I share a complicated understanding, but he's never truly hurt me. He's a good man."

"A good man who overpowered you. Was it last night? The night before? Is this why you didn't come to dinner as planned?" Eliza still sounds unhappy, but at least she's speaking more quietly. "Because an encounter with this _good man_ left you bruised and devastated, with a limp you can barely conceal?"

Hamilton closes his eyes and draws a calming breath. When he looks again, Eliza is watching him closely. She doesn't look disgusted. Worried—somber—but also unmistakably like she is _listening_.

"I know it's a lot to believe." He projects total sincerity into every word. "I know it's not what you, or perhaps _anyone else_ , would ask of a bed partner. But I need you to trust me. _I know what I want_. I give you my word, I'm in no danger."

"Even though he hurts you." The look in her eyes is not comprehension, and it's not precisely acceptance either. But it is a softening of the blunt edge of fear.

Here is the moment for candor—too late to go back now—and Hamilton forces himself to keep meeting her piercing attention. "He only hurts me in ways I desperately want him to. And he _always_ takes care of me after."

Eliza is still watching him heavily, but she doesn't protest again.

Hamilton reaches out, covers her hand where it rests atop her knee.

"Please," he says. His chest aches with earnestness he is desperate for her to see. "I am asking you to _trust me_."

She swallows. "Do you have other secrets apt to make me fear for your safety?"

"No." He resists the urge to crack a smile; something tells him it would not ease the tension settling between them. "This is the last and the worst of my secrets. I swear."

"Very well." She withdraws her hand from beneath his, though she gives his fingers a faint squeeze as she breaks away. When she rises from her chair, Hamilton does the same. He follows her once more to the empty foyer.

"Goodnight, Alexander." It's obvious she wants to say more. A final parting shot—perhaps an admonition to be more careful—but whatever it is, she holds her tongue and does not say it.

"Goodnight," he answers, and steps across the threshold into the frozen evening.


	9. Chapter 9

Despite the way they left things—despite the semblance of understanding with which they parted—Hamilton can’t dispel his fear that Eliza will forswear him now that she knows the entire truth. He has no doubt she’ll continue protecting his secret; she's far too loyal, far too _good_ to throw him to the wolves no matter how fiercely she might disapprove. But he can’t shake the deep-set anxiety that she might change her mind about his friendship. Perhaps the complete truth is too much and she will distance herself.

Hamilton is well accustomed to being _too much_. It's one of innumerable reasons that what he has with Washington feels so goddamn miraculous.

For all that they've known each other only a few short weeks, Eliza has become one of his closest friends. Second only to John Laurens, and even there… John doesn't know about his entanglement with Washington, though Hamilton trusts him in everything else.

Eliza he trusts even with this. If she decides to wash her hands of him, it will be an agony Hamilton cannot brace for.

But days pass, and Eliza's letters continue to arrive. The Schuyler sisters continue to request his company, as welcoming and charming as ever. Eliza smiles at him with the same fond warmth. She sits beside him at the Cochrans' dinner table when Hamilton joins them all—including Martha Washington, who does an admirable job pretending _she_ does not know Alexander's private affairs.

Eliza never pushes again—even the morning after Washington returns to camp and leaves Hamilton moving more stiffly than the entire time his general has been gone—but the watchful glint in her eye says she will not hesitate to intercede if she fears for him.

She will never have to intercede. Washington is far too good to him, even while taking him utterly to pieces.

They do nearly discuss the subject again, though Eliza comes at it from the side. Cautious. An offer rather than an interrogation.

"You know you can talk to me. About Washington. You won't scare me away."

They’re alone when she says this. Drinking tea beside a roaring fireplace in a private sitting room. The door is closed to keep in the heat, rendering the room perfectly cozy against the winter chill. Both Angelica and Peggy have come and gone since Alexander's arrival an hour ago. The door will inevitably open again, a servant with more tea or someone else come to join their chat. Strictly speaking they should not be unchaperoned if the whole damn world thinks they are courting, but these are not considerations anyone has chosen to enforce. There is a war on, after all.

Hamilton is genuinely surprised by her offer, and he places his nearly full teacup on the small table that sits between their stiff-backed chairs.

"You can't possibly want the intimate details of my love life." He keeps his voice light, masking his surprise with a hint of teasing. "Believe me, you'd find them appalling."

Eliza rolls her eyes. "Of course I don't want intimate details. What you two get up to is none of my business. I just meant…" She locks him in a more serious look. "It seems like a lot to keep to yourself. To have _only him_ to talk to, when surely things aren't always simple between you. Unless there's someone else you confide in?"

Hamilton's face flushes, even though it's foolish to feel called out by such an innocuous truth.

Eliza's voice is gentle when she says, "I didn't think so."

Feeling makes Hamilton's words sound tight and a little bit wrong when he admits, "My best friend… I can't tell him. He would try to protect me, and I don't need protecting."

"John Laurens?" Eliza asks softly.

Hamilton nods.

"Yes," Eliza agrees. "He would immediately challenge our commander in chief to a duel if he learned the true nature of your connection. I can see why you're reluctant to include him in your confidence."

The door opens. Mister Cochran pokes his head in and greets them, asks if Hamilton will be staying for dinner. Departs with a nod and an amiable smile at being told that yes, their guest will remain.

"You don't have to tell me anything," Eliza says when they're alone once more. "I'm not trying to pry. I'm just saying… I'm here. I don't mind. If you want to talk."

"Thank you," Hamilton says, and then falls quiet. He _doesn't_ want to give her more information, much as the reassurance bolsters him. His relationship with Washington is so utterly private. So personal. So improbable that he doubts he could explain to an outsider if he tried. But it's sweet of her to offer.

Wind howls so noisily that even though they're in a room with no windows, the sound echoes through the walls and ceiling. Winter is a truly awful time. Hamilton loathes it. He will be relieved beyond expression when spring returns and this hellish landscape recedes into memory, even though it will mean resuming hostilities.

Eliza remains silent—a thoughtful sort of quiet as she drinks her tea—and when Hamilton turns his head, he finds her peering into the fire. Her profile is serious, her eyes distant. It's not really the fire she's seeing, Alexander realizes. She's gone somewhere else in her own head, and he very much doubts it has anything to do with him.

"What about you, Eliza?"

She blinks and sits back in her chair, as though startled from her thoughts. "Me?"

"Who do you confide in?"

The smile she gives him is sweet, if a little sad. It's the most blunt Hamilton has ever been, for all that they’ve understood each other well from the very start of their acquaintance. He knows Elizabeth Schuyler has never looked on him as a potential lover—that she’s never looked in such a way at _any_ man—that she believes in love as something more natural, which cannot be constrained to exist only between a man and a woman.

But as to her own heart—her own deeper feelings—she’s never said a word, and Hamilton has not dared to ask.

Something in the way she’s offered herself as a confidante makes him feel bolder tonight.

Her failure to answer is no deterrent when she’s looking at him like this, and Hamilton presses onward gently. "I've never asked if _you_ have someone."

Her smile takes on a more exasperated edge. "If I did, you must realize I couldn't tell you. It's one thing to confide my own feelings. I could never divulge secrets that don't belong to me."

It's a reasonable protest. If Eliza had not discovered him with Washington—if she had not seen _exactly_ what they are to each other—Hamilton would certainly not have volunteered the information. Perhaps he would eventually have admitted his inclinations, or that his heart belonged to someone close at hand. But he would never willingly have confessed Washington's part, no matter how completely he trusts Eliza's discretion.

Now he wonders even more intensely if Eliza has someone, but he doesn't push the issue.

"I'm just saying." When he takes his tea in hand, the cup is no longer hot to the touch. "The feeling's mutual. If you ever need to talk. I'm here too."

That night, Washington joins the dinner party at the Cochrans’ table. He sits between Angelica and Martha, and barely speaks—though Hamilton can tell the general is enjoying the company despite his habitual reticence. Alexander sits between Eliza and Peggy, and does a great deal of talking. He's more than comfortable carrying most of the conversation, though several times he quiets as Martha eases into the fray.

It’s taken him almost two months since her arrival to admit—grudgingly—that he very much likes Martha Washington. There's sincerity in her demeanor. And if she's not especially clever, or incisive, or quick to conjure a retort… she’s charming and a very good listener. Happy to express herself at length if urged onto the right topic, but just as happy to fade into the background. No wonder she and Washington make such an effective team. She lends a softness to the general's silences, makes him seem kinder and more approachable simply by standing at his side.

Hamilton hasn’t spoken with her one-on-one. He has in fact put a great deal of energy into avoiding such a conversation. For all Washington's assurances—for all that Hamilton _believes them_ —he can't simply ignore the knowledge that Martha is married to the man he loves.

He appreciates that she’s made no effort to corner him, despite knowing the nature of their affair. There's a spark of understanding in her eyes when she looks at him, and something about it suggests she’s made a conscious choice to give him space.

It's as Hamilton and Washington are returning to headquarters on foot that the general says, "Philip Schuyler is coming to Morristown."

The street is not quite empty, but it's quiet, and the sky glitters frigid black. Stars glint like pinpricks of ice reflecting moonlight, except where cloud cover muffles the faint light.

"Do the girls know?" It seems strange to think Eliza would have failed to mention such a thing, or Angelica for that matter.

"I very much doubt it." Washington's gaze remains turned directly ahead, but his arm brushes against Hamilton's with every step. Alexander is desperately aware of every fleeting touch, attentive as always to his general's proximity, to the size and gravity of him, to the weight of his focus even though he is looking along the street. Washington's voice is a discreet rumble when he explains, "His visit is ostensibly to seek counsel for a spring campaign in the north, but his true purpose is to see his daughters. He will likely write to them once he finalizes his travel arrangements."

"Is… that a bad thing?" Hamilton doesn't know why Washington looks so somber about it. More than just his usual stern aspect, he looks like something is troubling him.

"No."

They're nearing headquarters now—Hamilton can see lantern light burning through the ground floor windows—but he stops Washington despite the bitter cold. "Then what's wrong?"

Washington is quiet for several seconds, still peering down the road, before at last he turns to look Hamilton directly in the eye. "I don't want to be meddlesome. You know I support your friendship with Elizabeth Schuyler. And I harbor no doubts as to her intentions." A pause, an uncomfortable inhale, and Washington continues, "But beyond the three of us and Martha, there is not a single person in this town who doubts you two are courting. I can only imagine what Philip will think when he arrives."

"I'm sure Eliza will disillusion him quickly."

"And if he gets it in his head that you're endangering his daughter's reputation?"

Hamilton's pride pricks, and it takes deliberate effort to quell a vicious retort. With difficulty he keeps his voice low. "I've done nothing to tarnish her reputation. Hell, even if I had, Eliza _doesn't want to marry_."

"Alexander," Washington chides, gentle tone making it obvious he recognizes Hamilton’s defensive displeasure. "I am not making accusations. I'm not saying you've wronged the Schuylers in any way. I'm only suggesting caution. Philip Schuyler is not likely to see things as we do, and he would make a dangerous enemy."

God damn it. The point is completely reasonable. Hamilton hates that his hackles are up anyway.

"It's fucking cold out here." He turns once more toward headquarters. Resisting the urge to argue when he knows his general is right. Two steps and then Washington is keeping pace beside him.

For just an instant, a broad hand presses to the small of his back. A grounding touch hidden in deep shadows, gone again all too soon. Hamilton draws a slow breath and keeps on walking.


	10. Chapter 10

The sight of Angelica Schuyler in the army's headquarters is not as surprising as it probably should be. Oh, she certainly looks out of place—her bustled skirts and heavy cape a stark contrast to the threadbare uniforms of Washington's staff—but looking at her, Hamilton has the distinct impression Angelica could whip this team of aides into even sterner efficiency than Alexander himself has managed.

She’s certainly smarter than all of them combined, perhaps even with Hamilton himself in the mix. He’s never deluded himself into believing he is Angelica Schuyler's intellectual better.

"Miss Schuyler!" It's John Laurens who first addresses her presence in the workroom door. Chair legs scrape as nearly every man in the room hurries to his feet in a show of flustered respect.

Hamilton rises with less hurry, meeting Angelica's amused smile with a single raised eyebrow. He isn’t surprised she was able to talk her way past the sentries, but knowing _how_ she came to be standing inside their headquarters does not tell him _why_ she is here.

"Is there something we can help you with?" Tench Tilghman blurts, blushing and flustered. "His Excellency is out on troop inspection, but if you require him we can send a messenger—"

"Relax, gentlemen." Angelica gives Tench a kinder smile than Hamilton has ever seen her wear—obviously taking pity on the youth’s anxious confusion. "I'm not here to interrupt your work. I only hoped for a word with Colonel Hamilton."

Hamilton's brow knits as he tries—and fails—to imagine what Angelica's purpose could be. It's unorthodox to an extreme to see a lady of society within the borders of a military camp. Even Martha has only been to headquarters a handful of times, and always on Washington's arm. Never turning up alone and uninvited, as though her presence is the most natural and unremarkable happenstance in the world. But there is ease in Angelica's posture, and purpose in her eyes, and though she's almost certainly curious about their work she gives no outward sign.

Chair legs scrape again as Alexander steps away from the table and the other aides sit, returning to their tasks.

"We can talk in Washington's office," Hamilton says as he joins Angelica in the main hall. "It's the only other room with any heat." Even bundled as she is in a thick cape and stiff bonnet, Angelica's cheeks are stung red with cold.

"Lay on, Macduff," she murmurs with a teasing smile.

Hamilton's eyebrow arches anew. "Are we to do battle?"

Angelica only laughs in answer, and follows him up the stairs. As with Alexander's private conversations with Eliza, secluding himself with Angelica Schuyler unchaperoned is a calculated break from propriety. It is not the done thing. But Hamilton will make sure they’re not long in talking, whatever Angelica's mission. And in any case, a busy headquarters is hardly the place for an assignation, especially when Washington's private quarters—bedroom and office at once—are located directly above the workroom.

Unorthodox as this visit is, Angelica is not truly risking her reputation by being here. Even if she were, it's hardly Alexander's job to point out the potential folly.

The stairs are narrow and uneven, but Angelica joins him on the second-floor landing without hesitation. Hamilton leads the way into Washington's quarters, leaving the door ajar. No one will be able to hear their conversation without first making a ruckus on the main stair, so if it's some private matter she's come to convey they have privacy enough.

Now that they’re alone, Angelica locks him with careful eyes and says, "I assume you're aware my father is coming to Morristown."

Hamilton does not allow confusion to make him hesitate. "Yes. I see all the general's correspondence." He waits a beat, but when Angelica doesn't immediately continue he asks, "Delighted as I am for you and your sisters... why are you telling me this?"

"Because you shouldn't waste the opportunity." Angelica nods decisively even though Hamilton has no idea what she's talking about. Then, whether recognizing the incomprehension on his face or simply concluding the thought, she adds, "If you're going to ask him for my sister's hand, you should do it in person."

The ice that slicks beneath Hamilton's skin has nothing to do with the gusty winter outside, and everything to do with the disbelief surging inside him. He had thought Angelica, of all people, knew her sister well enough to understand better—to see through the rest of the town's delusions of a nonexistent courtship. For her to suggest strategy as though marriage is his only possible aim…

No. Angelica is smarter than this. Hamilton cannot reconcile the contradiction.

He braces himself and answers, "Eliza is only a friend."

"Good," Angelica answers, so blunt and unsurprised that _Hamilton_ startles back a step. "She's informed me she has no romantic inclination toward you, either."

Alexander's confounded senses spin. "Then why are you suggesting—"

"Because she trusts you. Because _we_ trust you." Angelica's expression measurably gentles and she takes a step toward him, though the approach still leaves several feet of space separating them. When she continues, her voice is uncharacteristically soft. "I love my sister more than anything. I need to be sure she is safe. You and I both know it will never be a man who makes her happy, but she could use a friend like you."

"What are you saying?" Hamilton's mouth has gone dry.

"I'm saying you should consider confirming the rumors." Keen eyes hold Alexander trapped, like a fox in a snare. "A marriage could protect you both."

Hamilton's defenses rise, a bristling barricade of stubborn pride. "I don't need protecting."

Angelica only gives him an incredulous look, all high eyebrows and thin-pressed mouth. It is not a patient expression.

Alexander deflates. "How did you know?"

About Washington, he means. Or about Hamilton's own inclinations if she has not reasoned quite that far. He and Angelica have grown close, but not so close he's confided his most closely guarded secrets. And for all the trust between the two sisters, he’s confident Eliza hasn't said anything. Eliza would never knowingly compromise him.

The dry incredulity on Angelica's face softens and vanishes, replaced by something kinder.

"Don't worry," she says. "It's not obvious. You do a very convincing impression of a skirt-chaser."

The words are not as reassuring as she obviously intends them to be, but Hamilton doesn't protest. He knows damn well Angelica is smart. He shouldn't be surprised she's figured him out.

"I'm sorry," he says at last. "I can't."

Angelica hums, a noncommittal sound.

But as she brushes past him, toward the door, she murmurs a quiet parting shot. "Just think about it. You might change your mind."


	11. Chapter 11

Hamilton knows he's not obligated to inform Washington about his conversation with Angelica Schuyler. He's done nothing wrong, and her proposition is ridiculous enough to be humorous. But some ferocious desperation for complete honesty compels him, and he finds himself confessing the exchange with all the solemnity of a guilty parishioner.

They are not in headquarters when he does so, but returning that direction from an inspection of rotted stores at the edge of town. They're alone, though under the eyes of the camp as they pass tents and barracks and soldiers drilling in the snow. It's been only a matter of hours since Angelica's visit. Plenty of time for her words to twine uncomfortably beneath Hamilton's skin and make him feel like he's keeping secrets, when he has nothing at all to hide.

He feels better once he's spoken the words aloud, and he spares a glance for Washington before returning his focus to the snow-packed rut beneath his feet.

Washington doesn't seem angry. But there is something heavy about his silence. Something _more_ than the usual quiet reticence he carries around him like a shield. Hamilton doesn't know what to make of it, and he wonders if he erred somehow. Perhaps he _has_ wronged his general—or wounded him in some way he cannot perceive—and the idea sticks like a hot coal behind his ribs. Tense and aching and guilty.

Several seconds stretch between them, and Washington is still moving at a steady clip when he says softly, "She has a point."

Hamilton stumbles and very nearly falls into the snowbank alongside the path. Only Washington's quick reaction, a strong hand closing high on Hamilton's arm and steadying him, keeps him upright. They both stop, and Hamilton stares up into his general's face. Disbelieving and a little bit betrayed.

He spares a glance for their immediate surroundings, relieved to find only open snow in all directions—the closest obstruction is a barn almost a dozen yards away, and the nearest ranks of soldiers are even more distant than that. It makes him brave enough to address directly the inconceivable thing Washington just said. Never mind the cold stinging his face and hands, or the wind slicing through the fabric of his uniform. Never mind that the air is only growing icier as the sun sets, or that there's an alarming quantity of work waiting. Alexander does not resume his pace. He holds Washington in a horrified stare, motionless as stone.

"You want me to _marry_?" His voice comes out an incredulous hiss, but even so he sounds more hurt than angry.

"No," Washington says softly. He makes a small, abortive movement. As though he wants to hold Hamilton and barely remembers they are far too exposed here. "I want to keep you to myself until judgment day. But I also want you _safe_."

"I don't need protecting," Hamilton repeats, an echo of his useless protest to Angelica.

"People will eventually begin to ask why you refuse to take a wife. A connection to the Schuyler family would vastly improve your station after the war."

"But, _sir_ —"

"Alexander," Washington interrupts, soft but emphatic. He takes a single step forward, not quite far enough into Hamilton's space to be damning, but closer than decorum allows. "I am not ordering you to marry Elizabeth Schuyler. I am saying only that you should perhaps consider the possibility. If she's amenable, it may be sound strategy."

It's clear from the look on Washington's face that he abhors the idea nearly as much as Hamilton does.

But Washington is also right. _Angelica_ is right. And what better wife than a woman who does not want him, a friend who already knows his secrets and keeps them? Eliza knows what his general means to him and has't damned him for it. She has dreams and secrets of her own that the world would condemn just as readily.

It's infinitely practical. The idea still sits poorly in Alexander's heart.

"I don't like it," he says, even as all this understanding sinks home. "Friends should not use each other that way. And I hate the idea of the entire world thinking I belong to her when I will only ever be yours."

Washington surges forward a final step, grabbing Hamilton by both arms. There is bruising strength in those hands, though he lets go almost the same instant. Another moment and he takes a halting step back and looks away, hands clenched at his sides.

He speaks without looking at Hamilton. "Return to headquarters without me and find an excuse to dismiss everyone for the night."

There's no need for an explanation. Alexander recognizes the expression on his general's face, the tension in broad shoulders, the storm cloud of intensity breaking across the heavy brow. Between Hamilton's honesty and Washington's pragmatism, they have pushed each other too far. Washington intends to claim him, violently and without delay—is perhaps barely restraining himself from wrestling Hamilton down into the snow and having him right here, physical comfort and discretion be damned.

Anticipation sings beneath Hamilton's skin. His own need is at least as powerful as Washington's, and he has no urge at all to point out they don't have time for such indulgences. Hamilton is not feeling strong enough to put the cause first tonight.

"Yes, sir." He nods, and turns on his heel, hurrying to follow the desperate command.


	12. Chapter 12

Headquarters is completely empty by the time Washington storms through the door. He tarried as long as he could tolerate, in order to give his boy time to chase away the entire staff. Now he is here, and the silence is all but complete.

The dark space is lit only by the banked hearth from the workroom, and by the candle in Alexander's hand as he waits for Washington to set the bolt and seal them in.

There’s no such thing as perfect privacy—a matter urgent enough to demand the general's immediate attention could bring the only sentry with a key—but Washington is confident they won’t be interrupted tonight. In any case, this particular door is a heavy monstrosity, loud enough they can easily hear it from their bedroom directly above.

"What did you tell them?" Washington ascends the stairs behind his boy, enjoying the view in flickering silhouette. Daylight would be better, but rarely do they have solitude during daylight. He will take any opportunity provided.

"That you're in a disproportionate rage over the state of our southern food stores. I pointed out there was no reason for all of us to suffer your temper, and they were happy to scatter."

Perhaps on a normal night Washington would feel pricked that this explanation went over so smoothly. He is not proud of his temper, or of the times he’s inflicted it on those with whom he works most closely.

But tonight he’s simply glad everyone is gone. That he does not have to find the fortitude to address and dismiss his aides is a true blessing. The truth is, he doesn't trust himself tonight. He’s desperate to stake his claim, and not entirely confident in his ability to bluff. Better that headquarters is empty with his arrival. The ice that cut through him while he waited in the dark won’t bother his old bones for long. His cold hands will warm soon enough as he holds Hamilton down.

Upstairs, they don't even make it to the bed before he puts his boy on the floor. The air is chilly despite the fire burning in the stove, and there’s cruelty in the way Washington forces Alexander down onto his back naked, nothing but scattered clothing and floorboards beneath him.

For once Hamilton doesn’t fight him, a fact which Washington intends to reward by claiming his boy more brutally than ever.

" _Sir_ ," Hamilton gasps, goosebumps breaking out all along his skin. But though he shivers helplessly, he doesn’t otherwise protest the uncomfortable position.

Washington himself has lost only a fraction of his attire. Great coat and uniform jacket are gone, both miraculously affixed to their hooks on the back of the latched and bolted door. His waistcoat is unbuttoned, his cravat undone. He still wears his boots and breeches, but he takes his cock out anyway. He is achingly hard—stiff enough to match Alexander's visible arousal—and his own frigid fingers make him gasp.

He does not continue to touch himself. Instead he grabs for Alexander, wrenching his legs violently apart and dragging him closer.

There is no oil anywhere in this room, perhaps anywhere in all of headquarters, but that hardly matters. Washington is going to give Alexander exactly the pain he craves tonight, and damn tomorrow's consequences. He positions himself between trembling legs, letting the head of his cock nudge forward. His boy shivers beneath his hands, from either cold or anticipation, and Washington grins wickedly.

He pauses only long enough to yank the cravat from around his own neck and roll the fabric up tight, stuffing half of it into Hamilton's mouth as an effective gag.

Then he grabs hold of Alexander's thighs once more, rutting forward and dragging his boy down onto the relentless length of his cock. Alexander arches off the floor and his eyes squeeze shut, his whole face contorting in an expression of agony as he is viciously filled. His arms wriggle into the space between their bodies even as Washington's weight settles atop him, an instinctive effort to push his assailant away, to escape the torment.

Alexander’s scream is muffled behind wadded fabric, rough and ragged and absolutely beautiful.

And oh, Washington does not stop. He's just getting started. He keeps hold with bruising hands, using his weight, his strength, the leverage in powerful thighs to bury his cock in the writhing body beneath him. Washington shoves the full length deep, too fast to give his boy any physical pleasure. The vice around his cock is uncomfortably tight, dry friction that should not delight him the way it does. But then, Washington has long since given up on arguments like _should_ and _can't_ where Alexander Hamilton is concerned.

He pauses with his cock buried to the hilt, dropping his weight more fully, bracing his forearms against the floor. Shaking thighs squeeze his hips, a sensation he will savor forever, and he realizes Hamilton has stopped trying to push him away in favor of clinging helplessly to his shirt. When he peers directly down into Hamilton's face, he finds a dazed expression staring back at him, eyes wet and reflecting firelight from the stove.

Hamilton's chest rises and falls beneath Washington's own, and from the sound of him he is having trouble getting enough air.

"Are you in pain?" Washington murmurs.

Hamilton nods desperately, vocalizing an ineloquent sound.

"Hmm." Washington drags his hips back and then rams his cock forward even harder than before.

The slide is a little easier this time, a little bit slick—he has already made his boy bleed—and Hamilton keens behind the gag, a bright and frantic noise as his whole body jolts. He’s still clinging to Washington's shirt, and he bends his knees now, folding them to Washington's sides and securing his general between.

Washington withdraws and fucks in again.

Again.

_Again_.

He pounds the force of his arousal into Alexander's willing yet restless body, enjoying the apparent contradiction in his boy's reactions. The eagerness with which he holds on and welcomes every thrust. The instinctive desperation with which he struggles to avoid the worst of the pain.

Washington is moving faster now. Driving his cock roughly forward, penetrating as viciously as he can. Hamilton continues to scream at the most painful moments, but the strength of his voice is waning. The sounds making it past the gag are shattered and uneven, weak protests that rise and fall with Washington's cruel rhythm. Hamilton's cock is trapped rigid between their bodies, but Washington pays it no mind. His boy will not come without permission—he is reasonably certain—and even if he is wrong…

This is not a night for games and punishments.

A moan shakes through Washington's chest, and then a louder cry that he buries against Hamilton's throat. He digs his teeth in, marking the sensitive flesh, giddy at the way Hamilton writhes and thrashes in his arms.

Another scattering of moments—a few thrusts more—and Washington spends. Still with Hamilton's flesh caught in his teeth, still with his arms wrapped tightly around the boy, still with his cock wedged deep.

Still with Hamilton's beautiful cries of agony, muffled and indistinct in his ear.

If Hamilton had also spent, Washington would adopt a more gentle attitude. But his boy is still hard, which means they are not yet finished. Instead he withdraws roughly, not minding his own discomfort in the slightest—it's more than worth it for the fractured sob from Alexander's exhausted throat. A heartbeat's consideration for the myriad options before him, and then Washington tugs the cloth from Hamilton's mouth and tosses it aside.

"Sir?" Hamilton's eyes look foggy, still overwhelmed with arousal.

Washington's only answer is to lean down and take his mouth in a brutal kiss. He bites Alexander's lower lip, earning a gasp, but then Alexander's mouth opens to welcome the plundering thrust of Washington's tongue—meeting the assault with unashamed enthusiasm, letting his own tongue slide along Washington's like a challenge.

It's a challenge Washington is more than ready to meet. He grabs Alexander's wrists and pins them to the floor, holding on harder than necessary—not because he faces any resistance tonight, but for the sole purpose of painting dark bruises across delicate skin. He can _feel_ the movement of delicate bones and muscle in his grip, and he thrills at the rush of power that comes with the sensation. The knowledge that this impossible boy is _his_ , to possess and use and protect.

His to hurt.

His to claim as often and as fiercely as they both desire.

When Washington eases back, this time rising to kneel, Hamilton doesn’t move. He lies as close as possible to perfectly still, chest rising and falling shallowly, wrists resting on the floor above his head, lips swollen and barely parted, eyes dark with lust. Beautiful.

Washington moves more sharply now. Dragging Hamilton up—lifting him—carrying him across the room to throw him onto the bed.

"Do _not_ move," Washington snaps, preventing the wriggling movement that would have allowed Hamilton to get more comfortable.

What he wants more than anything is to follow and blanket Hamilton with his body, never mind that his own cock is so far only at half-mast. There is no sensation more perfect than Hamilton pinned beneath him, trapped against him, held inescapably in his arms.

But Washington has regained some semblance of control, and he works with efficient purpose instead. First he gathers scattered clothing, folding and setting it aside—less suspicious in the event someone does require him during the night—and then he treats his remaining attire with the same care as he strips. He leaves the long length of his shirt atop the pile, at the ready in case he needs to answer the door. Hamilton's unoccupied bedroll, never once used for actual sleep, Washington unrolls to complete the illusion of propriety.

At blessed last Washington returns to the bed, where Alexander remains motionless—sprawled at an awkward angle—half on his side, one elbow bent beside him, cock stiff and untouched. His hair is a disaster, held partly back in the chaotic remnants of his queue, and his dark eyes are impossibly wide.

Washington reaches down to yank the leather cord from Hamilton's hair, dropping it to the trunk that doubles as a bedside table. After a considering pause, he cracks his open palm across Hamilton's face, earning a hurt grunt. Then Washington bursts to more purposeful motion, manhandling his boy with bruising hands, dragging him up the bed and shoving him onto his stomach. Even here Hamilton would normally fight, regardless of how badly he’s hurting. But tonight he is all boneless compliance, allowing himself to be pushed and maneuvered and pinned without resistance.

" _Mine_ ," Washington hisses as he settles his full weight along Hamilton's back. He doesn't bother kicking Hamilton's legs apart, doesn't have to, simply positions the head of his cock—risen decisively now that he’s had enough time to regroup—between the cheeks of Hamilton's ass. He finds the swollen rim and lines up, then snaps his hips forward, sinking his length into Hamilton's waiting body.

The avenue is still tight, but slick this time, and protesting muscle gives way more readily as Washington immediately establishes an unforgiving rhythm.

Hamilton's fingers are twisting in the blankets, but Washington grabs him by the wrists, wrenching his arms upward and pinning both with one hand. Sobs of ecstatic agony reach his ears, a delicious counterpoint to the grunts and moans of pleasure escaping Washington's throat. His full weight can’t feel good bearing down on top of Hamilton like this, but such discomfort must be nothing next to the reaming his boy's ass is currently taking.

" _Fuck_ ," Hamilton gasps into the pillow beneath his face. He's crying audibly, tears soaking the fabric, voice wobbling dangerously. "Oh fuck, _sir_ , you're hurting me!"

" _Yes_." Washington speeds his pace, greedy for the way Hamilton has to bury sobs and shrieks in the pillow. Even now there’s a corner of his brain ready to stop if Hamilton uses any variation on their code, but he knows he will hear no such signal.

"Please," Hamilton whimpers, even though he has not actually asked for anything. "Oh god, you're tearing me apart, sir, _please_ —"

"More?" Washington teases, though there is no lightness at all in his tone.

"You can't—"

But he can, and he does, finding the fortitude to fuck his boy even harder. His rutting rhythm, already so vicious, becomes even more relentless. Skin slaps hard against skin and he’s jostling the entire bed now, as he rides brutally down with every thrust. Snapping his hips. Pounding so hard into the prone body beneath him that he begins to wonder if his boy will be able to walk tomorrow.

Normally this consideration would give him at least a scrap of pause. Tonight it does not dissuade him at all.

Hamilton's tears fall faster, his cries grow more ragged. He is taut beneath Washington's weight, and _this_ —more than any other tell—is how Washington knows his boy is close.

Washington thrusts in and then freezes so abruptly that even his stillness earns a muffled scream.

Then, before Alexander can recover from the sudden change, Washington brushes his lips against the shell of Hamilton's ear and says, "Come for me, my dear."

Alexander obeys, with a cry so loud that Washington releases his wrists in favor of covering his mouth, smothering the noise with a wide palm. Hamilton arches beneath his general’s pinning weight, and he clutches at Washington's arm, pleading and helpless and lost to the throes of ecstasy.

Washington intends to wait until Hamilton has calmed a little, before he finishes reaching his own completion. He yearns to wait until Alexander is over-sensitized and exhausted, in order to savor every last scrap of torment he can inflict tonight. But the tight clench of Hamilton's body is too much. Inescapable pleasure tips Washington over the precarious edge, from mounting hunger into a whirlwind of satisfaction. It's a tidal wave overtaking him, an orgasm even more powerful than the first he experienced tonight.

He spends there, his teeth finding Hamilton's shoulder and his eyes clenching shut.

It requires almost more energy than Washington can spare, to clean both himself and his boy in the quiet moments after, but he does it. Alexander is far too hurt and exhausted to bathe himself with the water in the basin, which means it’s Washington's job to wipe away the slick proofs of their activities from between bruising thighs. Alexander whimpers when the rough cloth passes over his swollen and aching rim, and Washington soothes him wordlessly, shushing his protests even as he repeats the contact just to see his boy squirm.

When Washington is clean himself, he returns to their bed, barely managing to raise the blankets over them before Alexander burrows in against his chest. Normally after an especially violent fucking, Alexander is all boneless satisfaction, happy to be held but waiting for Washington to drag him close. Tonight he is all needy energy, burrowing in against Washington's chest and _demanding_ to be held.

Washington is more than happy to oblige, and his boy breathes a contented sound at being crushed close.

Alexander will be in unavoidable agony tomorrow. He will certainly not be able to sit his chair in the workroom downstairs. It’s distinctly possible he won’t be able to get out of bed at all. These facts don't worry Washington like perhaps they should. The winter has been unduly harsh. He will inform the rest of his aides that his chief of staff has taken sick with an ague. Considering the colonel's frequent ill health and willful refusal to sleep, no one will think a fever unlikely.

With this decision, Washington allows himself to enjoy the sleepy warmth of their shared bed, the comfortable quiet between them.

"I love you." Hamilton whispers the words like the dangerous secret they are, lips brushing Washington's skin.

There is an instant where Washington fears he won't be able to answer through the feelings tightening his throat, but he swallows past them and speaks in a voice full of gravel. "I love you too, my dear."

Hamilton sighs and stretches up to kiss him. Washington allows the kiss—returns it—offering a lifetime of wordless reassurance in this, the only way he can. He does not want his boy to marry. But if this is what it takes to safeguard Alexander's future, to see him survive this war with all the prospects his ambition deserves, to see him alive and healthy and protected…

Then this is a path he will willingly guide Alexander along.


	13. Chapter 13

It takes Hamilton less than a week to concede that Washington and Angelica are right. The advantages of marriage—for both himself and Eliza—far outweigh the instinctive refusal that makes it such a difficult decision. 

His own future, his own connections, his own prospects among ambitious society after the war… These reasons alone would not sway him. But the knowledge that marriage would protect Eliza too—that it would allow both of them to live their own lives, bolstered instead of endangered by the perceptions of society—that they might make an effective team, capable of achieving more together than either of them could manage apart?

_That_ is a far more compelling argument.

He is cautious when he approaches Eliza. Confident as he is that she didn't send Angelica on her behalf, he has no way to know if the sisters have discussed him at all. It's possible she'll want no part of what he intends to propose, or that she may take offense at the suggestion. She could be hurt if she thinks he's trying to take advantage of her station and her family.

But when he finally catches her alone and haltingly broaches the subject, he finds that he has worried for nothing. Eliza is not offended. If anything she looks almost pitying at the fact that Hamilton is offering himself at all.

"Please understand me," he presses onward. "I have no expectations, and will take no umbrage if you reject my offer."

"Alexander," she says with impossible softness, cautious sympathy. They are alone in the library in which Eliza first learned of his secret attachment to his general, and the winter winds are howling painfully outside the frost-scattered windows. This, like their previous unchaperoned interactions, is a breach of etiquette and decorum—but Hamilton is confident no one will accuse either of them of impropriety.

Despite the hint of admonishment in her tone, he can't seem to stop himself from continuing, a frantic and unnecessary flow of explanation. "And if you _do_ agree, you know I won't— I'm not truly in search of a wife, just as you have no desire for a husband. I would have us continue as we are."

Eliza's smile, contrarily enough, contains a faint glimmer of genuine amusement. "My dear friend, do you honestly think I could mistake your intentions?"

He wants to ask how she can make light of this. His own heart is beating fast, his chest tight with an irrational sense that he is doing something wrong. He has to keep reminding himself that he's not betraying Washington. His general all but sent him here. There is nothing unfaithful in what is essentially a pact between friends—a business agreement even—and one Washington is perfectly aware he is considering.

But he tucks his defensiveness away. She isn't mocking him. They are both in difficult positions. Him desperate for a chance to make his mark upon the very world, and even more desperate to be certain he can remain at Washington's side while he does it. Her the daughter of a wealthy merchant, reliant on her father's fortune and expected to marry.

They are, he realizes more sharply than before, the perfect answer to each other's problems.

He still can't entirely shake the feeling that marrying Eliza would be taking advantage of the Schuyler family's generosity in an unforgivable way. But pragmatism has brought him this far, and he has no intention of retreating now.

"I think," Eliza says in the tone of someone treading with extreme caution, "that this is not really what you want."

"Of course it's not what I want." There's little point dissembling when she knows him so well. He has been standing beside the roaring hearth, and now—belatedly—he drops into one of the enormous wingback chairs. His posture slouches, fatigue and resignation, and he tucks himself against soft cushions. "What I want is for the entire world to know that Washington is mine. For secrets to be unnecessary, and to have no need for this farce. But those are things I will _never_ possess."

"It would not have to be a farce." Eliza settles into the second chair and watches him with knowing eyes.

"A sham, then," Hamilton amends. "A marriage in name only. I will never be a true husband to you, and I will certainly never give you children."

"I don't need children," Eliza says. "And the pretense of a husband would be more than sufficient. You know my feelings."

"I do," Hamilton concedes.

"Would it help to consider the thing in a different way? That you would not truly be marrying _me_ , but rather securing your position at Washington's side?"

Hamilton blinks at her. "I… suppose that's one way to look at it." He bites his lower lip, pondering for a long moment. "And what about you? If I'm to use you for such selfish ends, will you truly be content with what you get in return?"

"A life safe from unwanted suitors, with the freedom to do—and to love—as I choose?" Eliza gives him an indulgent smile. "It's not the path I would have chosen if the world were a more forgiving place. But we make our own future. I think as a team our chances of happiness are much better than standing alone."

"Neither one of us is alone," Hamilton protests, though he certainly understands her point. They are well poised to support each other, and their combined resources will be a force to reckon with. But he will also never stand truly alone while his general lives—he can allow for no possible future where Washington doesn't survive this war—and whether she marries or not, Eliza's sisters will never let her fall destitute.

Eliza inclines her head, acknowledging his point, her mouth quirking at one corner.

Then the hint of smile fades, leaving a more somber expression on her face.

"Alexander." Eliza's eyes take on a more serious aspect. "You're a dear friend. I will never covet your romantic affections. And if you give me your word you won't try to control me, I'll consider your proposal."

"Of course you have my word." It's among the easiest promises he has ever made. Why should he seek to control anyone, let alone a woman who is not really his wife?

"All right then." Eliza's answering smile is kind. "I'll have an answer for you within the week."

Hamilton excuses himself then, never mind how abrupt it might seem. He has made his point—conveyed his offer—and now that there is nothing to be done but wait, he can't bear to remain making lighter conversation. There will be time to socialize later. Once she has accepted and they begin to make plans; or once she has rejected him and he can begin proving to her that there are no hard feelings. But now, in this period of limbo, he's desperate to be elsewhere.

He pauses at the library threshold, his hand on the open door, his head turned so he can look back over his shoulder at Eliza. For once he cannot read her face.

"Goodnight, Miss Schuyler." He gives a quick nod. Then he makes his way along the hall. Down the stairs. Out the door.

Into the frigid night, to return to headquarters where he belongs.


	14. Chapter 14

Washington knows his boy has approached Elizabeth Schuyler. He knows a proposal has been proffered and that she did not provide an immediate answer. Alexander has been a complicated tangle of anticipation in the few days since. Understandable: until he has an answer the entire shape of the future remains in limbo.

It's a quandary Washington can appreciate, though he finds himself comparatively calm. Whatever Miss Schuyler's decision, Washington has no intention of letting his boy go. If this path forward proves untenable, he will find some other way to protect what's his.

He's in the middle of reviewing intelligence from the northern army when a private letter arrives for him. He cracks the wax seal, revealing a single piece of fine parchment, neatly folded. The missive is written in a practiced but not especially elegant hand.

He is being invited to dine at the Cochran house this very night. The invitation is signed by Elizabeth Schuyler.

That she's taken the time to write tells him that whatever she wishes to discuss—and he can certainly make a guess as to topic—there is a time-sensitive element to it. Otherwise she need only have waited for him to visit Martha in due course. He has dined with the Cochrans and their guests dozens of times through this winter with its record-colds and mountains of snow, and he will invariably do so again.

He sends an answer in the affirmative, and informs his staff that he will be absent for the evening. Hamilton doesn't ask why. Perhaps he already knows what Eliza intends, or perhaps he's intuited the reason based on his ample stockpile of information.

The dinner itself is uneventful, quiet, pleasantly mundane. Washington is the only outside guest. He sits beside Martha, enjoying her company and letting her carry the conversation for the evening. Even at his most sociable Washington prefers to let others do the talking, and tonight he is too distracted to uphold his end of the company's mild discourse. From the looks Martha keeps giving him, she knows why he is here—Washington hasn't told her any details, but she's more than capable of connecting the dots—and while there's no hint of pity in her demeanor, there is subtly masked concern.

He wonders what conclusions she's reached. Does she know the courtship between his boy and Elizabeth Schuyler, while still a sham, has progressed to the point of a proposal? Does she think Alexander is being unfaithful, or does she see through to the true contours of their situation?

He will have to give her a more thorough account. Just as soon as he knows for himself what is going on.

After the main courses have been cleared away, Eliza excuses herself with a sweep of skirts. The rest of the table remains seated awaiting dessert, but Washington knows a summons when he sees one. He excuses himself from the table as well. He manufactures no pretext, offers no explanation as he exits the finely appointed dining room.

Any worries he might harbor about needing to track the young woman down in the Cochrans' enormous house are immediately dispelled when he finds her waiting a short ways down the hall. She wears a kind but determined smile, and she gestures with a nod toward the open door beside her before disappearing inside. Of course Washington follows—this is why he's here—and closes the door behind him as he steps into a sitting room with an enormous fireplace.

Propriety would normally dictate he should not be alone with an unmarried lady, regardless of their respective stations, but Washington isn't worried. For one thing, Martha is only a couple rooms away in this very same house. For another, it's within Washington's power to make sure that whatever this conversation must entail, it will at least be a short one.

It's genuinely surprising to look at Elizabeth Schuyler and not feel some pang of jealousy. Washington knows his Alexander has proposed marriage to the woman standing before him now. He knows that if and when the two marry, things will be strange and different.

The world will see Hamilton and his new bride as something they are not, and no one will suspect Hamilton's heart belongs to someone else.

But that misconception is the entire point of this farce, and Washington finds he is _not_ jealous. Not towards Eliza, in any case. Regardless of how desperately he might wish for a world in which he can proclaim that Alexander Hamilton is his, he knows in both his mind and heart that he has nothing to fear from the young woman watching him now.

"I haven't yet accepted Alexander's proposal," she says, wasting no time with pointless smalltalk.

"But you intend to." They wouldn't be standing here tonight otherwise.

That kind smile softens even further, and she inclines her head. "I wanted to speak with you first. Alexander says you support the arrangement, but I need to be sure. I won't accept his offer without your blessing. I refuse to cause you pain simply to pursue my own protection and future."

Washington stares, stunned not at the bluntness of her words, but at how utterly improbable they sound.

"You would turn him away on my account?"

"Yes," she answers simply. The way her chin rises might look defiant on a different face, but there are too many unguarded feelings flashing in her eyes. Too much kindness and sincerity in the way she peers through him. "I've no intention of spoiling what you two have found together. If we can coexist in this way, I would be delighted to consider you family. But I won't force your hand."

For several endless moments, Washington is silent as he absorbs these reassurances. They seem impossible, and yet the look on Eliza's face leaves no room for doubt.

"Your Excellency," she murmurs, when he fails to answer for too long, "let me be even more clear with you. If you wish me to refuse I will, without giving any indication that I'm doing it on your behalf. Alexander won't question my reasons. He knows this is a difficult decision, and he won't compel me to change my mind or explain myself."

"Why would you do that for me?" The questions escapes despite Washington's best efforts to contain it, and he feels his face warm with embarrassment at having expressed the thought aloud.

"Because," she says with only a hint of exasperation, "it's the _right thing to do_."

"My dear Miss Schuyler." Washington steps farther into the room but makes no move to touch her. "You are a woman of singular character."

The corner of her mouth twitches, and Washington can't tell if she is sheepish or pleased at the compliment. It doesn't really matter. He will not apologize or retract his assessment.

"Do you have an answer for me?" she presses finally. "I don't mean to rush you, but I promised Alexander _my_ answer within the week, and the deadline is fast approaching."

Washington laughs, a surprised chuckle of sound at the uncharacteristic audacity of the demand. The charming stubbornness in her posture, the glint of purpose and determination in dark eyes. She clearly doesn't intend to let him leave this room without giving her an answer, and under the circumstances he can't exactly blame her.

"You have my wholehearted blessing." He takes a step forward and brackets her shoulders with both hands, a thoughtless but heartfelt gesture. "And more. I promise to protect you in return. Every resource at my disposal is yours if you need it."

Eliza blinks rapidly and moisture makes her eyes shine in the firelight. "Thank you, Your Excellency."

Within three days the engagement is publicly announced, though word has already circulated with the speed of a wildfire through camp. The news is hardly unexpected among the officers, who have continued to consider Hamilton's supposed courtship inevitable. But there is still an overabundance of giddy congratulations as the information spreads, that Washington's chief of staff will be marrying the charming and exceptionally rich Elizabeth Schuyler.

The night of the announcement, Lafayette appears in Washington's office during a rare moment alone.

It's clear he has chosen his timing very deliberately, as he comes bearing a bottle of Washingtons's favorite wine—Madeira—and two battered metal cups. Hamilton is absent from camp, and will be for the next several days, riding out to carry orders that may require a certain heavy-handed stubbornness to see through. Little as Washington relishes sending his boy away for _any_ reason, there was no one else he trusted to get the results and additional troops he requires.

Which means he is alone as Lafayette approaches him in his private quarters and closes the door.

"Good evening, Mon General," Lafayette says with a theatrical air. "Put away your pen. Tonight we drink."

Washington quirks an eyebrow as he sets his quill in the ink pot. He gestures to the chair across from his narrow desk, and looks up at Lafayette expectantly. Lafayette offers a strained smile as he accepts the seat and then pours them both a generous quantity of wine, pushing one cup across the desk.

The wine is crisp and dry, and Washington savors his first mouthful.

"You've been holding out on me," he teases after he swallows and sets down the cup.

"Saving for a special occasion," Lafayette counters breezily.

"And this qualifies?"

Lafayette shrugs, then allows a more serious expression to chase away his smile. "I won't pretend not to be delighted for our little lion and his pending nuptials. But I have always desired _your_ happiness just as fervently. It's cruel of him to abandon you this way."

Washington keeps his expression deliberately blank at this first confirmation that Lafayette doesn't realize the truth. If he perceives the situation as presented—if he does not recognize the engagement as counterfeit—it's no wonder he has come to offer his condolences. He must assume his general is in great distress.

The silence stretches uncomfortably, and Washington raises his glass for another slow sip of the wine. He can feel Lafayette watching every movement, but he takes his time. Patient. Collecting his thoughts and deciding the best strategy for moving forward.

He wishes he could be honest with the young Marquis. But considering Lafayette's reaction when he first learned of their entanglement—and considering his lingering disapproval since—allowing him to continue his misapprehension seems the only viable course. Perhaps it is unkind to lie to someone so devoted to him, but Washington steels himself to do so, as convincingly and succinctly as possible.

"If it's all the same," he lets his eyes cut away as though he finds himself nearly overcome with emotion, "I'd prefer not to discuss these matters. Tonight or ever." His voice hardly sounds gruff enough to sell the lie, but he lets the implication of heartbreak linger in the quiet space between them. Prays it is enough.

When he finally raises his head he finds Lafayette watching him with an unmistakable sheen of tears in his eyes. From anyone else Washington would find the show of feeling ridiculous. From the affectionate young Frenchman he will _always_ look on as a son, Washington feels only gratitude. And relief that his evasion has been taken in stride.

"Thank you for the wine," Washington says. "And for your company. Tell me, have you heard from your lovely wife recently?"

Lafayette grins, and drinks, and allows the question to redirect his attention to lighter realms.

**Author's Note:**

> So with the shorter installments of this series, I was a little more comfortable avoiding the uglier aspects of the time/historical characters. In this story I still sidestep the inescapable truth that George Washington was a slave owner, that he was _not_ the good man Hamilton paints him, and that all of this would be relevant to their daily lives and their encampment at Morristown. Do I feel conflicted about this? Yes. Do I have a solution to the problem? No.
> 
> I do have a couple book recommendations if anyone is interested in reading more about the real history:  
> * _Never Caught_ , by Erica Armstrong Dunbar (seriously excellent and detailed)  
> * _Buried Lives_ , by Carla Killough McClafferty (a solid book, more geared toward younger readers, covering the lives of several different individuals)  
> * _His Excellency, George Washington_ , by Joseph Ellis (not as good a resource on this subject as the two above, but a bit more candid/balanced a view of Washington than Chernow presents)
> 
> And otherwise I hope you'll enjoy this bizarre and completely fictional story, about these way-off-the-historical-mark Broadway characters we all adore so much.


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